L's stupid blog

But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself. 

Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room. 

You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you. 

"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again. 

"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."

Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out. 

"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair. 

"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"

You blink. "What?"

Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."

"I didn't fight anyone."

"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."

Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."

His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"

"...I fell off a ladder."

His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.

You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"

You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.

He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.

You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.

"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.

"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."

Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.

You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.

You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.

Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.

"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.

You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of. 

"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.

You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"

He huffs a laugh.

The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.

"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."

"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."

He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."

You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.

The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid. 

It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour. 

Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it. 

He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.

Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities. 

You were able to see and speak to ghosts.

Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.

The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.

Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.

His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"

You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident." 

Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.

"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.

Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."

"This was just bad timing." You brush it off. 

He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."

"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."

You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.

Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.

He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.

The bell rings again, barely a minute later. 

"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.

"I don't think so."

The male voice makes him look up.

Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.

Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome. 

The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"

The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.

 "Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.

The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before." 

"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."

The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.

Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.

Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.

Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store. 

Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."

He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.

He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy? 

Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.

The Art of Dating.

Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."

It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.

"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"

You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."

Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."

You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."

He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."

Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"

"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."

You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"

He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."

You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.

Scrubs?

You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.

You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.

You let your head fall back against the chair again.

"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.

You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."

"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"

"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."

You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."

There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"

"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."

You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.

You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over. 

You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.

Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down. 

So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much. 

You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again. 

You don't think you can handle it. 

Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.

You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift. 

Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.

The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.

It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.

But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it. 

You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.

Your eyes snap back.

Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin. 

It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.

That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on. 

It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.

Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate? 

"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.

You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"

Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."

You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."

Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.

You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"

You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."

When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.

You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"

He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."

"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.

"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"

"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology." 

"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock." 

You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."

He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."

Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"

"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."

Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."

He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"

You nod, smiling. "I'll be here." 

He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.

He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.

"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.

You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.

"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."

"I do not." You turn to glare at her.

Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.

A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.

Ghosts.

It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass. 

You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.

A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose. 

You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."

A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"

"What's your name?" you ask her instead.

"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"

"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."

She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.

You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.

"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"

You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.

You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."

You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."

You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight. 

Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"

He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."

Your face brightens. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you." 

"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"

He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."

You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."

"Oh, you have coffee now?"

"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."

"Coffee's any good?"

You shrug. "Depends who's asking."

His mouth curls. "I am."

"Then I'll say yes."

He huffs a laugh.

Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.

You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.

You nod. "Take it."

The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why. 

You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."

"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."

The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't be."

You glance at him.

He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."

You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."

His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."

You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.

After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"

You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago." 

You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."

He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."

"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."

You glance at him. "That was that?"

He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."

You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."

"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum." 

You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words. 

You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.

Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again.  He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."

You smile. "I usually do."

"Thanks again for the book recommendation."

"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path. 

The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat. 

"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair. 

He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today. 

He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is. 

"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time. 

Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.

You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.

"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip. 

"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."

You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."

"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."

"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.

His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"

You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.

Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.

"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."

The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.

"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.

"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you. 

"Hey!" 

Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.

"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."

Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.

Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.

His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.

At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.

You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.

So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—

He doesn't finish the thought.

Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.

Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"

You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.

"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.

Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"

Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.

Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."

Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.

And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"

A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.

He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.

Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"

Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."

You frown. "So soon?"

He pauses. 

Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."

He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."

You roll your eyes, waving him off.

The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.

Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.

He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.

Cancer.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.

You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.

You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all. 

You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left. 

You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.

He'd think you were crazy. 

And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.

So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.

You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.

Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."

You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"

You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."

"After what?"

You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."

"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."

You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"Still taking it."

You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."

He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."

So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"

"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."

You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."

Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."

You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead. 

"Tell him I'm fine."

"You could tell him yourself, you know."

You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.

Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.

Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything. 

You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves. 

It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.

And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.

That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.

Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.

Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."

Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.

Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"

Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."

Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"

"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.

Jack watches him. "Fine?"

"Yeah."

Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.

You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.

"Is she sick?"

"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.

"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."

Ethan's expression shifts.

Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."

"...No."

Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"

Ethan looks away.

Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."

"She's busy."

"She looks pale."

"She's been busy."

"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."

Ethan sighs. "Jack—"

Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."

Ethan finally looks at him.

"I'm a doctor. I can help."

"You can't."

"Please."

Ethan's expression softens.

Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.

Ethan blinks. "Jack—"

"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."

He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.

Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."

"Then what?"

Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."

Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"I can't."

Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."

Ethan doesn't answer.

"You know what's wrong with her."

"I know she's dealing with something."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."

"Jack."

"She doesn't even have to know I can help."

Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."

Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—

He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."

"I'm sorry."

Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door. 

"Jack?"

He pauses.

Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."

Jack looks back.

Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."

Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.

He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.

He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.

He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.

Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.

You feel like you're losing your mind. 

Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.

For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.

But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.

You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost. 

One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.

The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.

So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.

And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.

"I miss my mommy," she whispers.

Your eyes close. "I know."

"She'll find me, right?"

You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."

Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.

"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"

"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.

"What?"

She stands. "You don't want me here."

"Poppy—"

"You don't want me!"

You lift a hand. "I want to help you."

"You want me gone. Just like they said." 

The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.

"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."

Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."

"I am trying to find your mommy."

"I want her!" Her voice rises.

You wince. "Poppy—"

"I want my mommy!"

The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."

She freezes.

You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."

Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."

The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."

She's already disappearing.

"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.

"Hey."

You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."

Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"

You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"

This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.

Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.

You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."

"Okay."

You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.

With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.

When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.

"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"

Jack nods. "I do."

The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.

"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"

The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"

The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."

Your stomach sinks.

"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."

Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.

He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."

It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."

"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."

The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.

And now Jack—

Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—

He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.

You shake your head. "I'm not."

"Honey—"

"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.

Jack rises with you.

"I'm not sick."

His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."

"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."

"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.

"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."

Jack goes still.

Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."

He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"

You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."

Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.

Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"

"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."

His face falls.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."

"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.

You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."

His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out.  You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.

You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.

Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.

You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—

It quiets.

You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.

"Can you see me?"

You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."

Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"

That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.

She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."

You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"

Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."

His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.

"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.

Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."

You look away. "Good."

"He's worried about you." 

You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."

A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.

The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."

You frown. "Then who are you?"

She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.

The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"

Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."

You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."

She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."

You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"

She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."

You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"

"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.

No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.

You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"

"Yes..." She hesitates.

You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"

Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."

You stop filling the kettle. "We?"

"Us ghosts."

You stare at her.

"We talk."

"You talk."

"Yes."

"About me?"

"Sometimes."

Your eyes close. "Wonderful."

"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."

You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"

Rachel's expression turns sheepish. "We thought..."

"You thought what?"

She doesn't answer.

"You guys thought you could set us up?"

She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."

"I can't believe this. This is insane."

"We didn't mean to hurt you."

"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"

"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"

Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."

Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"

"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."

She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."

She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.

Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.

Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.

Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."

You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."

Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"

"Yeah."

He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"

You laugh. "Yeah."

"Really?"

"Is it that unbelievable?"

"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."

You pause. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."

Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack." 

Ethan raises an eyebrow.

"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story." 

There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong. 

"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"

"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"

"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"

"Hinge."

Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."

"Boyfriends," you correct.

"There's a difference?"

"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."

"Everything?"

You shrug. "About me."

Ethan watches you.

You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."

"If you say so," he replies.

"You're the one always telling me to get laid."

"I didn't mean this."

You give him a warning look.

He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."

You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.

The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.

You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.

You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.

You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.

The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."

No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too. 

And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.

None of them is Jack.

You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes. 

By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."

Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.

You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."

Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"

"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."

She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"

"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."

Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."

"You don't know that!"

"They were boring."

"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"

"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.

You stare at her.

"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."

You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"

Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.

"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."

All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"

"I mean it."

Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."

"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"

Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.

"Good." You grab your purse.

You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.

So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance. 

Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.

You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.

You really should have known better.

The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.

"Hi."

Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi." 

You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"

Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead. 

The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.

Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.

"Wait—" 

You keep walking. You don't turn around.

That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.

You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.

He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.

Somehow, he's everywhere you go. 

Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving. 

And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.

The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.

And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection. 

It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired. 

The lights flicker.

You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.

The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"

"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.

She takes a step toward you. "Please."

"What's going on?"

"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.

"Who's going to get you?"

Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."

"Poppy, wait."  

For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door. 

"Who is going to get you?"

She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.

You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.

You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.

You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.

Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.

He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store. 

When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.

"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.

"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing I can explain right now."

"Ethan."

Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."

"Why? What's going on?"

Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."

Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."

Jack hesitates.

Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."

A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him. 

Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."

"Put your seatbelt on."

Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."

Ethan doesn't respond. 

"What happened?"

Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."

"Ethan."

His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."

Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.

"The ghosts in the store."

Jack stares at him.

Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."

"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.

"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."

Jack breathes out. "Ethan."

"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."

Jack's brow furrows.

"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."

"I—" Jack starts carefully.

"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."

"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere bad."

The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.

Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.

Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"

But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.

You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.

He breathes your name out quietly.

Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.

Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"

Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.

Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again. 

Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.

You're floating.

Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him. 

Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"

Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"

He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."

He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."

He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.

He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.

"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.

"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.

"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.

Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."

Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.

They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.

You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.

Your body goes limp again.

Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.

Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.

Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"

He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."

Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.

Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.

Ethan can't remember much of the past day.

The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.

There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.

He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.

Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.

He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.

Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.

Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.

Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.

Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.

Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.

The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.

He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.

Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.

She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."

Your heart aches. "Poppy."

She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."

You swallow. "They were lying to you."

She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"

"It's okay."

"Are you mad?"

You shake your head. "No."

"But I hurt you."

"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."

"I'm really sorry."

"I know."

Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile. 

She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."

Your breath catches. "You did?"

Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?" 

You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."

"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"

You nod, blinking back tears.

She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through. 

You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now." 

Jack's eyes open slowly. 

"Hi," you murmur.

"Hi."

"I'm guessing you heard that?"

He nods.

You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"

His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"

"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."

"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."

He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."

"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."

You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."

You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.

Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."

You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.

Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."

You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.

Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.

For several minutes, neither of you speaks.

You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.

"I don't know where to start."

He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."

You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.

Just sorry.

You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.

So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.

That part is harder.

Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.

Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.

When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.

Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."

Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."

"I know."

You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."

His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."

Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.

Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place. 

The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.

You glance at Jack. "She's here."

His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"

You nod.

He sits straighter. "Can she—"

"She can hear you."

Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression. 

"What does she say?"

You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."

His jaw tightens.

You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."

Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."

Rachel shakes her head.

"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."

A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.

Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."

Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly. 

You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."

You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.

"You're good for him," she says.

You sigh.

"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."

You bite your lip. "Rachel."

"Let yourself have something good."

Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"

You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.

"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."

His face crumbles. "Rachel."

She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently. 

Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."

Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.

Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"

You nod. "She's ready."

He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."

You squeeze his hand. "She knows."

The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.

Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."

You squeeze his hand.

After that, things are slow.

Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.

You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.

Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.

Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer. 

"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.

You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you. 

"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.

You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."

Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."

Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.

Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"

Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.

You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."

Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.

His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.

You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand. 

You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"

You smile. "You don't have to ask."

Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

You don't.

His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again. 

For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next. 

You trust him.

The casket arrived in Pittsburgh without Task Force 141.

Brendon noticed that before anything else.

Before the black government vehicle rolled through the secured hangar doors on the military side of Pittsburgh International Airport. Before the uniformed officers stepped onto the concrete beneath the cold November sky. Before the British flag stretched tightly across polished wood came into view, every fold immaculate beneath the floodlights lining the military ramp.

None of them were there.

No Price. No Ghost. No Soap, Gaz, or Roach.

Instead, a British officer Brendon had never met walked beside you.

Major Elias Ward had accompanied your remains from RAF Brize Norton to Dover Air Force Base, where the official dignified transfer and mortuary processing had taken place. When you were cleared for the final journey home, he boarded the dedicated aircraft with you and remained beside you until it touched down on the military ramp at Pittsburgh International Airport, near the 911th Airlift Wing’s Air Reserve Station.

His uniform was spotless, but exhaustion had settled into the lines around his eyes. He carried a narrow black presentation case against his chest as though it contained something fragile.

Brendon stood with one hand resting on his son’s shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around his daughter’s fingers.

Mason was eleven and old enough to understand what the casket meant, although he had not cried since the casualty officers came to the house. He had stood beside Brendon while two uniformed strangers explained that his mother had died overseas, his hands buried in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and his face frighteningly blank.

Seven-year-old Sophie kept staring toward the aircraft as though she expected you to step down after everyone else.

Brendon was still wearing his hospital clothes beneath his coat. He had left PTMC as soon as another attending could take over the procedure, stripping off his gloves while Garcia explained that your flight had landed earlier than expected.

He remembered telling her to close for him.

He remembered Garcia taking his shoulders in both hands and telling him she had it.

After that, there was nothing.

He could not remember changing out of his surgical gown. He could not remember calling the children’s school or driving across the city. He could not remember parking outside the hangar.

He only remembered the casket coming through the doors without the people who had promised to bring you home.

Major Ward stopped in front of him.

“Doctor Park?”

Brendon did not look at the officer. His eyes remained fixed on the flag covering you.

“Where are they?”

Ward’s expression tightened.

“Captain Price and his unit were placed under operational restriction following the incident.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Mason’s shoulder went rigid beneath Brendon’s palm.

Ward glanced toward the children before lowering his voice.

“They were not cleared to leave immediately. By the time they were, none of them believed they had the right to stand beside her casket and face you.”

Brendon finally looked at him.

“They didn’t believe they had the right?”

“No, sir.”

“They could survive chemical attacks, gunfire and torture, but they couldn’t face my children?”

Ward’s jaw shifted.

“There is a difference between recovering one of your own and delivering her to the people who were waiting for her.”

Brendon wanted to hit him.

He wanted to grab the front of the man’s uniform and demand that he open the casket, wake you up and explain how five men trained to walk through hell had been too afraid to stand in a hangar with your husband and children.

Instead, Sophie tugged on his sleeve.

“Daddy?”

Every person in the hangar went still. She looked past him toward the casket.

“Is Mommy inside there?”

Brendon crouched in front of her. His knees struck the concrete harder than he intended, but he barely felt it.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Sophie stared at him, her small face serious.

“Can we see her?”

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Ward turned his face away.

“Later,” Brendon finally managed. His voice scraped against his throat. “After they make her ready.”

“Why does she have to get ready?”

Brendon swallowed.

“Because she had a very long trip.”

Sophie considered that before nodding. She trusted him. She believed that he still understood how the world worked and that, if he promised she could see her mother later, he could make it happen.

That was the worst part.

She pressed herself against his chest, and Brendon held her while the honour guard approached the casket.

Mason did not move.

His face stayed blank as the officers lifted you. Only his breathing changed, growing shallow and uneven beneath Brendon’s hand.

They carried you past them with slow, measured steps.

Brendon watched until the casket disappeared beyond the hangar doors.

Major Ward remained behind.

“The Regiment asked me to give you this.”

Brendon slowly rose.

Ward lowered the narrow case and opened it.

A folded Union Flag rested inside, along with your beret, dog tags and the battered watch Brendon had given you on your first wedding anniversary.

He had bought it because you were always late.

You had laughed when you opened the box and told him that a watch could not fix a personality defect. Then you had worn it every day for thirteen years.

Brendon stared at the scratches across its face.

“The flag covered her during the transfer out of theatre,” Ward said. “She served beside British soldiers. She saved British lives. The Regiment wanted her family to know she was considered one of ours.”

Brendon looked at the Union Flag.

“She was ours here, too.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ward accepted the words without argument.

Brendon reached for the watch.

The metal was cold against his palm.

“Was she alone?”

“No, sir.”

Ward answered immediately, and something in Brendon’s chest twisted.

“She was never alone.”

“Who was with her?”

Ward’s gaze dropped briefly to the presentation case.

“Sergeant MacTavish.”

Soap.

Brendon closed his fingers around the watch.

“Did she suffer?”

Ward took a careful breath.

“I was not present when she died.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“No.” Ward’s voice softened. “It isn’t.”

Brendon waited.

“She was given pain relief as soon as the team reached cover. Captain Price remained with her until evacuation personnel arrived. Lieutenant Riley did not leave her during the flight out of theatre.”

Ghost.

Brendon looked toward the doors through which they had carried you.

“Then why isn’t he here?”

Ward did not answer.

He did not need to.

Brendon closed the case himself.

Price came to the house three nights later.

All five of them did.

Brendon had been sitting at the kitchen table with your calendar in front of him, staring at an appointment you had written down for Mason’s dentist six months from now.

Mason — dentist, 3:30. Do not let Brendon claim he forgot.

Your handwriting slanted upward at the end, as though even the letters were amused with him.

The doorbell rang shortly after nine.

Sophie was asleep upstairs with one of your old sweatshirts tucked beneath her chin. Mason had gone to bed but had not closed his bedroom door, something he had not done since the casualty officers came.

Brendon opened the front door and found Task Force 141 standing beneath the porch light in civilian clothes.

They looked wrong without their gear.

Smaller somehow.

Human in a way Brendon had never wanted them to be.

Price stood at the front in a dark coat, his shoulders squared as though he were reporting for punishment. Ghost remained behind him, his face covered even here. Gaz kept his hands buried in his pockets. Roach stared at the wooden boards beneath his feet.

Soap had one arm strapped against his chest.

Brendon saw the bandages near his throat. Healing burns climbed along one side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar.

He understood before anyone spoke.

“Which one?”

No one answered.

Brendon stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him so the children would not hear.

“Which one did she die saving?”

Soap’s eyes filled immediately.

“Me.”

Brendon crossed the space between them.

Price moved first, putting himself between Brendon and Soap.

Brendon’s fist struck Price across the mouth.

The blow snapped his head sideways. Price stumbled into the railing, one hand catching the wooden post as blood appeared along his lower lip.

Ghost did not reach for Brendon.

None of them did.

Brendon hit Price again, catching him near the jaw.

“You promised me.”

Price remained upright this time.

“You stood in my kitchen.” Brendon grabbed the front of Price’s coat. His hands shook violently against the fabric. “You ate at my table. You looked my children in the face and promised you would bring her home.”

“I did.”

“In a box!”

The words carried through the quiet street.

Price closed his eyes.

Brendon shoved him away.

The captain struck the railing again but made no attempt to defend himself.

Brendon turned toward Soap.

Soap looked ill. His injured arm remained secured tightly against his chest, and stitches disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

“She came back for me,” he said.

His Scottish accent had gone thin with grief.

“The first blast trapped my leg. She could’ve made the extraction point, but she came back.”

Brendon pressed both hands over his face.

“She got me loose,” Soap continued. “There was another device.”

“Stop.”

“She covered me before it went.”

“I said stop.”

Soap’s mouth closed.

For several seconds, the only sound came from Brendon’s breathing.

Then Soap spoke again.

“She was conscious afterward.”

Brendon’s hands dropped.

Price looked sharply at Soap, but Soap continued.

“She knew she wasn’t coming home,” he whispered. “She made me take her tags. Told me Mason would pretend he was fine and Sophie would start sleeping with the hallway light on.”

Brendon stared at him.

“She said you’d forget to eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.”

A sob tore out of Brendon before he could swallow it.

He bent forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other pressed to his mouth.

Soap looked down at the porch boards.

“She told me to tell you that she wasn’t scared until she thought about you having to tell the kids.”

Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. He could see you saying it.

Not because you had not been afraid to die, but because even at the end, you would have been thinking about everyone except yourself.

“She kept asking if we’d contacted you,” Price said quietly. Blood remained on his lower lip. “We told her we had.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Brendon looked up.

Price did not look away.

“Communications were compromised. We couldn’t reach command until after she was gone.”

“You lied to her.”

“Yes.”

Brendon straightened, his vision blurring. His mind was no longer on the porch. It was with you in those final minutes, wondering whether you had been scared, whether it had hurt, whether you had known how badly he would have wanted to be there.

God, if he had been, he would have begged you to stay. He would have kept asking you to hold on until the words became selfish, because he would not have known how to let you go.

So he said the only thing that made sense now.

“Good.”

Price’s brow tightened.

“Good,” Brendon repeated, his voice breaking. “She didn’t need to know I wasn’t there.”

The front door opened behind him. Mason stood in the doorway wearing his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled from bed, but his eyes were wide awake.

Brendon’s stomach dropped.

“Mason—”

His son’s gaze moved across the five men before settling on Soap’s injured arm.

“You're the one?”

Soap’s face crumpled.

“Aye.”

Mason walked onto the porch.

Brendon reached for him, but his son moved past his hand and stopped in front of Soap.

“My mom saved you?”

“She did.”

“Why?”

Soap lowered himself carefully onto one knee despite his injuries. His face tightened with the movement, but he did not stop until he was level with Mason.

“Because she was my friend,” he said. “Because she knew I had people waiting for me too.”

Mason’s chin trembled.

“Then you better do something good.”

Soap stared at him.

“With your life,” Mason said. “You better make it worth what she gave you.”

Soap bowed his head.

“I’ll try.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“No,” Soap whispered. “It isn’t.”

Mason stood there for another second, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Then he turned and buried his face against Brendon’s chest. Brendon wrapped both arms around him.

Mason’s entire body shook as the first sob came out of him. It sounded small and frightened, nothing like the silence he had carried around for the past three days.

Brendon held the back of his head and pressed his face into his son’s hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, although he no longer knew whether he was speaking to Mason or trying to convince himself. “I’ve got you.”

Behind them, the front door opened wider.

Sophie appeared in the doorway, clutching one of your old sweatshirts.

The grey fabric hung nearly to her knees. She had pushed one sleeve clumsily above her wrist while the other covered most of her hand.

She looked at the men who had returned without you.

“Are you Mommy’s friends?”

Price wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes, love.”

Sophie held the sweatshirt tighter.

“She would want you to come inside, then.”

That broke whatever composure they had left.

Gaz pressed a hand over his mouth. Roach sank onto the porch step, elbows braced against his knees as his head dropped. Price turned away, his jaw tightening while he stared into the darkness beyond the railing.

Ghost said nothing. He only looked towards the empty street, as though there were something in the dark he could drag you back from, if only for your children.

Ghost understood the first punch. Price had promised to bring you home, and the rest of them had made that promise in their own ways. Brendon had every right to break something when they arrived on his porch without you.

Then your daughter appeared wearing the grey sweatshirt you had stolen from your husband years ago.

Ghost recognised it immediately. He remembered you curled into the corner of a safe-house sofa, arguing with Brendon through a cracked phone screen while Ghost cleaned blood from his gloves just outside the camera’s view.

“My name is on the tag,” Brendon had said.

You had twisted around to check before laughing and wearing it anyway.

Something tightened beneath Ghost’s ribs, but he pushed the feeling aside.

Years before Brendon, that laugh had belonged to moments shared only with him. Whatever had existed between the two of you had never been given much of a chance to become a life. Ghost had wanted you, but wanting you had been easy. Staying would have meant letting you close enough to see everything he kept buried, and he had been too damaged and too frightened of what loving him might eventually cost you to ask for that.

He had let you go before you could build a future around a man who did not know how to believe in one.

It had hurt you. For a while, the two of you spoke only when the job required it, but eventually you found your way back to each other. You became friends again, not the way you had been before, but close enough to trust each other through long missions, bad orders and everything that followed.

Ghost never tried to interfere when you met Brendon, although he remembered the first time you mentioned him.

You had returned from a favour for Laswell after helping an American unit with something outside Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, of all bloody places. Ghost had barely thought about the city before you came back saying you had met someone there.

Once the assignment was over, the soldiers from the base had taken you to a nearby bar. Some drunken patron had mistaken your patience for permission and put his hands where they did not belong.

You had not needed rescuing. Ghost knew you could have put the man through the nearest table before anyone finished ordering another round, but Brendon had stepped in anyway.

You told the story with an amused smile, describing the American doctor who had caught the man’s wrist and calmly advised him to move before you broke it yourself. Brendon had understood that you were perfectly capable of defending yourself. He had simply made it clear that the stranger would not be touching you again.

Things had taken off from there.

Ghost remembered the jealousy that settled beneath his skin when you returned. You seemed lighter and distracted, carrying a private happiness you tried and failed to hide. When Soap made some filthy joke about how thoroughly the American doctor must have seen you off before the flight home, you told him to shut his mouth without meeting anyone’s eyes.

That had been answer enough.

Ghost kept his thoughts to himself. He assumed Brendon would become a story you occasionally told, one unexpected night with an American you had met in a city neither of you had expected to matter.

He never imagined it would lead to a wedding ring beneath your gloves, photographs tucked into your vest and two children waiting for you in Pittsburgh. He never imagined he would one day stand on your porch and see that same grey sweatshirt hanging from your daughter’s shoulders while your husband tried to survive the fact that you were gone.

Pittsburgh should have been a passing detail. Instead, it became the place where you built the rest of your life.

Even after you married Brendon, there were moments when the past still found its way between you and Ghost.

One night in a safe house, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside him with the pieces of your rifles spread across an old towel. You cleaned his weapon while he worked on yours, continuing a habit left over from the years when trusting each other had come more easily than admitting what you felt.

Ghost inspected the bolt you handed back to him.

“You missed a spot.”

You glanced over without lifting your head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Carbon on the edge.”

“That was already there.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You keeping photographs of it now?”

Ghost looked at you across the scattered gun parts. “Could start.”

Your mouth curved. “You always were fussy about my weapons.”

“Someone had to keep you alive.”

“That what you called it?”

The teasing came back easily—too easily—and for a moment, the years between you seemed to disappear. Ghost remembered the way you looked at him then, amused and fond, with just enough understanding in your eyes to make the room feel smaller.

Then your phone vibrated against the floor, and Brendon’s name lit the screen.

The old familiarity between you settled back into the past where it belonged.

You picked up the phone with a softness already touching your face.

“Hey, you.”

The warmth in your voice struck Ghost harder than he expected. He lowered his head and returned to your rifle, dragging the cloth carefully through the chamber while Brendon spoke through the phone.

“No, we’re fine,” you said, glancing towards Ghost. “Just cleaning up before we move again.”

Brendon said something that made you smile, and Ghost kept his attention fixed on the weapon in his hands.

“I know,” you murmured. “I miss you too.”

There was no hesitation in your voice. Whatever flame had once existed between you and Ghost belonged to another time, while Brendon had become the life you were returning to.

When the call ended, you placed the phone beside your knee and reached for the rifle.

“Where were we?”

Ghost checked the chamber one last time before handing it back to you.

“We’re finished.”

You studied him for a moment, as though you knew something had shifted and respected him enough to leave it alone.

“All right, then.”

Ghost missed the years when your smiles had turned towards him first. He still remembered the softness of your lips against his and the way you had once looked at him as though there might still be a man beneath everything the world had made of him.

Missing it did not make it his.

Brendon had built the life with you that Ghost had once been too afraid to imagine. He had seen how freely you smiled around your husband and heard the warmth that entered your voice whenever you spoke about the home waiting for you in Pittsburgh. Your love for Brendon lived in every part of you: the ring beneath your gloves, the photographs tucked into your vest and the children waiting for their mother to come home.

Ghost respected you both too much to turn his regret into something you had to carry.

Perhaps another version of him, in another life, might have been brave enough to stay. In this one, he had always stood outside the frame.

When Sophie invited them inside, Ghost lowered his head and waited for Brendon to open the door.

Brendon looked down at his children and understood that you were still taking care of them through every habit you had left behind.

There was Mason’s stubbornness, Sophie’s open heart, the extra meals labelled in the freezer, the emergency contacts taped inside the kitchen cupboard, and your handwriting on the calendar reminding him about dentist appointments months after your death.

He opened the door wider. The five men entered quietly.

Gaz helped Roach to his feet. Price paused beside Brendon, his lower lip already swelling, but neither man apologised.

There was nothing either of them could say that would make an apology useful.

Soap stopped at the threshold.

Mason had not released Brendon’s coat, but he turned his head enough to look at him.

Soap waited.

After a moment, Mason gave a small nod.

Only then did Soap step inside.

Sophie led them toward the living room, dragging the sleeve of your sweatshirt along the floor.

“You have to be quiet,” she told them. “Mommy’s things are sleeping.”

Price made a sound that might have been a breath or the beginning of another breakdown.

Brendon remained on the porch.

The cold air moved against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain and chimney smoke from somewhere farther down the street.

The road was empty.

For one irrational moment, he imagined headlights turning the corner. Your car pulling into the driveway. You leaning across the centre console to grab your bag before stepping out, tired and irritated because nobody had warned you that Pittsburgh had already become this cold.

He imagined you climbing the steps and asking why everyone was standing around looking miserable.

Nothing happened.

The street remained empty.

Inside the house, the Union Flag rested beside the folded American one.

Two countries had claimed the honour of mourning you.

Neither could give you back.

Brendon opened his hand.

Your watch lay in his palm, its scratched face reflecting the porch light. The second hand had stopped sometime during the journey home.

He pressed it into his skin until the metal hurt.

Then he went inside to raise the children you had died trying to come home to.

“Oh, so you don’t want to get in my pants?” Jack cocks an eyebrow, glancing at you before moving his eyes back to the road. 

“Mmm, I didn’t say that,” you twist your body towards him, leaning over the console between the two of you, pressing a lingering kiss just below his ear that makes his breath catch a little, “I plan on getting in them after,” 

You sink back into your seat, a cocky little smile on your face as you smooth down your dress. After pulling into a parking space near the market the two of you wait in the car for a moment while Jack’s hard-on dissipates. 

“You know this is your fault,” he says, entirely playful.

“Me?” You laugh, “how is this my fault?”

“If you weren’t wearing that dress we’d already be picking out peaches right now,” he grins, eyes tracing down your body again. 

“Plums,” you correct with a little smile. 

“Plums,” he agrees with a little eye roll. Another minute goes by before the two of you get out of the car, walking hand in hand towards the farmers market.

“We gotta go to Cato Corner Farm to get that sheep's cheese you like,” Jack says, squeezing your hand.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, “the Zamorano. You’re so right,” you pull him towards you and place a kiss on his cheek, “you think of everything,”

He just smiles back at you, happy to be able to make you happy. As you wander through the stalls, leading Jack right to the Halfhorn's Farm booth to get your plums, Jack notices a pair of young men whose eyes are following you. You don’t seem to notice, slowing down near a stall filled with fresh cut flowers. You take in a deep breath and Jack turns back to you just as you start to bend forward to smell the peonies. 

“Woah, baby,” he says, putting his hand on your lower back, stopping you. You look up at him, wide-eyed and a little confused before he reaches down and grabs a stem of the fluffy pink flower and holds it out for you. Your expression melts into one of pure adoration, a small blush spreading across your cheeks as you hold the flower up to your nose, breathing in its sweetness all while keeping your eyes locked on Jack. You hold it up to him and he touches his nose to the soft petals, inhaling just like you had. 

“Think we need to get you some of these, pretty girl,” he says, voice low enough so only you can hear him. Your blush deepens, cheeks flushing red, as you take his hand. He turns to the woman at the booth and asks for twelve stems.

“Lovely choice,” the woman says with a warm smile, “the peonies are just gorgeous this time of year,”

“They’re beautiful,” you agree as she wraps up the bouquet in brown parchment paper. Jack hands her his card before she can even say how much they cost, “thank you so much,” you say, taking the bursting spray of flowers from her. Although Jack offers to hold them for you, you insist on carrying them yourself, looking down at them every few steps with the most precious smile on your face.

As the two of you meander down the shady path Jack sees a man standing with his wife and kid blatantly staring at you. Smartass thinks his sunglasses make him discreet but Jack can tell his eyes are fixed on you, right where your little dress cuts across your chest, pressing your tits together perfectly. Jack spots the Cato Corner Farm stand to your right, dragging you that way by your hand, placing you firmly in front of him, your back pressed to his chest, blocking you from that asshole's view.

The old woman at the cheese stand recognizes you by name as you greet her sweetly.

“Hi Ethel,” you smile, “how’s it going out here today?”

“I’m not sure it could be a more beautiful day,” Ethel smiles, and leans forward as if to tell you a secret, “or a more beautiful dress,” she gives you a knowing little wink. This one, of course, Jack doesn’t mind. Ethel always pays you a compliment, perhaps a little repayment for your kindness to her. You had brought her to the Pitt after she had a bout of vertigo about two years ago and she hasn’t stopped being completely gracious since. Plus, you found it endlessly entertaining how she always flirted with…

“Hi Dr. Abbot,” Ethel says sweetly, “looking very handsome today, as always.” You lean back in Jack’s arms, turning to him and beaming as he smiles at Ethel. She had become very smitten with him the day you brought her to the hospital and he treated her. Little did you know at the time, Jack paid extra attention to her because he wanted to spend more time with you, to take care of someone you cared about. He had learned later that you had really only known her in passing. It made him want you all that much more. 

“Ethel,” Jack says, squeezing you back against him, “how many times do I have to ask you to call me Jack?”

“Oh, psh,” Ethel waves him off, but she’s grinning like a school girl, “what can I get you today dear, half a pound of the Zamorano?”

“Am I that transparent?” You smile. Ethel turns and grabs a wheel of cheese, moving it to the cutting block. Just as she starts cutting, her grandson, Trevor, meanders over to where the two of you wait. Jack hates Trevor. Maybe he hates him because he would be a more ‘age appropriate’ guy for you, or maybe he hates him because he is always flirty with you, whether Jack is there or not. It’s probably that latter.

“This is a reserve gruyere with a little tomato tapenade,” Trevor says, reaching forward to hand you one of the little paper cups he’s been passing out before he noticed you, “really nice acidity from the tomato with the nutty flavor of cheese,”

Before you can even react Jack is reaching around you and taking the sample from Trevor getting enormous satisfaction from the way his face drops. Jack plucks the little slice of cheese from the cup, holding it out for you to try. You look at him with a little, sassy smile on your face, knowing exactly what he’s doing, and open your mouth for him. You take a bite of the cheese, leaving half for Jack, who smugly pops it into his mouth. 

“Mm,” Jack hums, nodding as if he’s seriously contemplating the flavor profile Trevor described. 

“It’s good,” you say, turning to Jack to see if he agrees. 

“Yeah, we’ll take a quarter pound of that Trevor,” Jack says, a cocky smirk on his face, “and the tapenade,”

Trevor turns, dejected, muttering to Ethel that you’d like a quarter pound of the gruyere as he hands her the block.

“Oh wonderful,” Ethel says over her shoulder. Trevor slinks away towards the van to sulk. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you laugh, whispering to him.

“Gotta make sure everyone knows who you belong to,” he murmurs in your ear. His words send a wave of warmth throughout your body. 

“Oh yeah?” You say, your voice lowered so only he can hear.

“Gonna show you too when we get home,” he says, squeezing your hips, pulling you back against his crotch where you can feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Jack,” you giggle against him as he takes your bouquet of flowers from you, moving you to his side so he can hold the large bunch of flowers over his pelvis.

“Alright, here we are,” Ethel says, handing you two blocks of cheese and a jar of tapenade. 

“Thank you, Ethel,” you say, taking the provisions from her and putting them in your bag.

“Have a good day you two,” Ethel says, before looking at Jack, “and you better keep an eye on her today. Gonna have all the fella’s chasing your girl lookin’ that pretty.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jack smiles, taking your hand and walking you towards the Halfhorn's booth. 

Jack watches you with a little smile on his face as you contemplate the plums at the produce stand, a tiny, little line between your brows as you pick up the pieces of fruit one by one, turning each over a couple times before putting it in the little green, pulp fiber basket or placing them carefully back on the pile. You’re the most precious thing in the world to him. He loves the little concentrated face you make as you pick out stone fruit, it’s the same one he’d first noticed at the hospital when you’re focusing on something really hard. It makes his heart flutter that you take this fruit as seriously as the life and death situations you deal with at work. Just as you’re bringing one up to your nose, another patron at the stand sidles up next to you. Jesus Christ, Jack can’t catch a fucking break. 

“How do you know if they’re good?” He asks, nodding down to the plums. This guy’s closer to Jack’s age but it doesn’t make him any less pissed.

“Oh, um,” you look down at the plum in your hand, really considering the question more than the reason this guy’s asking you, “you gotta check for a little give, press near the stem, and it should smell sweet and… plummy…” 

The guy nods with a smarmy smile on his face and just as he’s about to open his mouth to try and keep talking to you, you turn in Jack’s direction and he’s already walking towards you to intervene.

“Baby,” you say, smiling as your gaze lands on him immediately, “if we got peaches for cobbler would you eat it? Or-” you take in a little gasp, resting your hand on his chest, “peach upside down cake. Do you remember? I made it last summer with your mom?” 

Jack looks at you with reverence as you look at him, your fingers toying with the little buttons below his collar. As much as he enjoys showing everyone who you belong to, he also knows he belongs to you just as much, and you’re just as willing to show that. He leans down and places a little kiss on your lips.

“You’re the sweetest,” he murmurs.

“Is that a yes?” You smile at him.

“Yes,” he says, grabbing another green basket for you to fill. 

The two of you wander back towards the truck with your haul, Jack carefully placing the peonies in the back seat so they don’t get squished. 

“Hey,” you say, making him turn towards you as he starts the car, “I love you,”

“I love you too,” he says, resting his hand on your knee, giving it a little squeeze, “but I think if you wear this dress outside again it’s gonna kill me. Too many guys checking you out… and Ethel…”

You laugh, shaking your head and resting your hand on top of his.

“You’re the only one who gets to see what’s underneath,” you say, dragging his hand up your leg slipping his fingers beneath the hem of your skirt. You pull your legs apart, head leaning back against the headrest staring at him. As he keeps his eyes on the road he moves his hand up your thigh until his pinky brushes up on where he thinks the seam of your panties should be. He turns to you and you have a little smirk on your face, your bottom lip between your teeth.  

“Oh my god,” he shifts his hand a little further, his fingers running up the center of your bare pussy. His eyebrows furrow and his mouth hangs open as he lets out a little groan, “fuck, baby, no panties?”

You let out a little giggle as he quickly brings his hand up to his mouth, sucking his ring and middle finger past his lips, coating them in spit before dropping his hand back down. He flexes his hand grazing over your core as you let out a small, breathy moan. 

“You made me make a mess,” you whine, moving your hand over his, pushing his fingers harder into the wetness between your legs, “touching me all day, grabbing me, making sure everyone knows I’m yours…”

Jack wants to pull over so badly, yank you over the console and stuff your pussy full of his fingers until you’re squirting all over his hand but he wants to fuck you right, so he keeps driving. He slowly starts rubbing circles on your clit, making you nice and ready for him.

“What would everyone think huh?” He says, voice condescending, “if they knew you were dripping down your thighs for me the whole time? Surprised no one could see in this tiny fuckin’ dress,”

“Only want you to see,” you whimper as Jack continues his slow, tantalizing pressure on your pussy, making you squirm in your seat.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice raspy with lust, “you’re so good for me,” 

“Jack,” you whimper, pushing your hips up against his hand, desperate for more friction. He tuts, making a mock sad face at you.

“I know you wanna come,” he says, “but I don’t want you to until my cock’s inside you, got it?”

“Ok,” you squeak. After what feels like eons, but is really only a minute of Jack teasing your poor little pussy, he pulls up in front of your building, pulling his hand from you making you let out a pissy little huff. Jack just smiles, getting out of the car, gathering your haul from the back seat before walking around to your door and pulling it open for you. Even with his arms full he still holds a hand out for you to take, which you do, dragging him inside. 

As soon as you’re in your apartment you’re taking things from Jack’s arms, throwing them on the kitchen counter before turning back to him. Your hands drop to his belt, working the buckle open and shoving your hand down his boxers, grabbing his hot cock, making him suck in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. He pushes his shorts and boxers down just enough to expose his cock which bounces up onto his stomach before grabbing your hips and roughly turning you around. He flips up the little skirt of your dress and bends forward, caging you against the counters between his arms, his shaft pressing against your ass.

“Who’s pussy is this?” Jack rasps in your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

“Yours,” you squeak, pushing your ass back against him, “it’s your pussy,”

 He straightens up, rubbing his cock against your slick hole, pushing in slowly as you both moan at the feeling of him stretching you out. He stays buried inside you for a moment, hips flushes to you as runs his palm over the smooth skin of your ass, flexing his stomach, making his cock push up inside you. You let out a small squeak at the feeling and he smirks. 

“Jack,” you try to move your hips, squirming against him. Slowly he pulls back, feeling you squeeze around him, wet and warm. He starts fucking you hard and fast, watching the little bounce of your ass as he pushes inside you over and over, your little white dress fluttering as he fucks in and out of you He grips down on your waist, squeezing your smooth skin in his callous hands. 

“Does my girl like when I fuck her greedy little hole?” He groans, gripping down on your hips so tight the skin under his fingers turns a shade lighter.

“Yeah,” you whine, “I- I love how your cock stretches me out,”

“Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, snapping his hips against you at a deep, relentless pace, gripping the flesh of your ass in his hands, pulling your cheeks apart so he can watch his cock stretch in and out of you. He spits down on you, the saliva landing on your asshole, using his thumb to spread it down to your pussy.

“I love the way you fuck me,” you whine, the force of his thrusts is making your ass jiggle with every move. He reaches around you, gripping your tits through the flimsy material of your dress, rubbing over your nipples until they’re diamond hard, poking against the white lace. 

“Love it when I can feel you squeeze around me,” he grunts.

You’re pressing your palms down on the counter, whimpering as he pounds into you. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says, voice rough, “so sexy, taking my cock so good.”

A shiver runs up his spine, he’s not gonna last much longer, not with you against the counter looking like you do: eyes shut, mouth open, and flushed cheeks. He pulls his cock out of you and hauls you up by your neck, turning you around, perching your ass on the counter. Your fingers wrap around the edge of the cool marble while he gently pulls down the thin straps of your dress before yanking the neckline down, exposing your tits to him. He pushes back inside you hard, loving how your tits bounce, framed by the white fabric of your slutty, little sundress. He bends forward, sucking one of your nipples in his mouth, feeling it harden under his tongue as he fucks up into you. 

“Play with your clit,” he says, mouth full of your breast. You reach down between your bodies and start rubbing tight circles on yourself, “good girl,” he mumbles on your skin. 

“I’m gonna come,” you whine, your hand faltering slightly.

“Yeah?” He fucks in and out of you harder and faster, “say my name when you come, say who this pussy belongs to,”

“I-” you squeak out as your eyes squeeze shut, “Jack, Jack, Ja-ack,” you say as your mouth falls open, your pleasure overwhelming your ability to speak. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says through gritted teeth, “my beautiful girl,” he says, balls slapping against your ass as he fucks you through his orgasm while his breaks in his stomach. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he pushes inside you one last time, hard, coming deep inside your pussy. The pair of you look down between your bodies where his cum leaks out of you around his cock still buried inside you.

“Oh my god,” you say breathlessly. He tilts your chin down so you’re looking at him. You stare at each other for a moment, chests heaving, he pulls you in slowly by your jaw and placing a lingering kiss on your lips.

 “I love you,” he whispers. 

“I love you too,” you sigh. You let out a small whine as he pulls out of you. Before you can get off the counter he bends down between your thighs, “Jack your leg,” 

His heart swells at the worry in your voice but right now he’s still a man possessed by your sweet pussy. Admiring your glittering wetness blended together, he licks it all up gently as you squirm and whimper above him. He stands back up, taking your jaw firmly in his hand, squeezing down so your mouth opens. Jack spits the blend of cum and spit into your mouth. He pushes your chin lightly so your lips close, dragging his hand down so it rests on your neck. You stare at him in a bewildered lust.

“Swallow,” he says, feeling your throat under his fingers as you gulp down, “good girl.”

Jack pulls his shorts up before gently moving his hands back to you, pulling the front of your dress up carefully, putting the thin straps back in place before smoothing down your skirt.

Trying the old fashioned way was the first step. You weren’t going to put thousands of dollars into regular sex unless there was a high success rate because there was also other factors, like adoption, or surrogates. You were open to anything. The end goal would always be a child. 

You talked with a gynecologist, and they talked about getting you both in the right direction. Checking Jack’s sperm count, checking hormone levels, checking your eggs. There was a lot of checking. 

And that’s how you’re here. Now. Sitting with a nice lady who has auburn hair and glasses on her face. Her name is Amy and she didn’t judge your age gap, acting as if it was completely normal. 

It’s a little awkward like this. She’s using harsh phrases and big words that you should be used to by now because you’re married to a doctor. But then again— she’s not your husband. 

You turn to look at Jack the same time he looks at you. Trying to decide if you should say “we can’t keep our hands or tongues off each other,” or maybe a more appropriate answer. 

You turn back to Amy, bashful smile on your face when you answer: “Often.” 

Amy nods and writes on that little clip board. Fuck it seems like that clip board is already the bane of your existence. 

“And are any of you on any medication that would prevent conception?” 

This time you turn to Jack before he can turn to you. Meaning he has to answer because he keeps track of most of your pill intake. 

“Not that I know of.” 

You picked a bad time to visit the doctors. The closest fertility specialist’s are at least an hour away from home. Jack’s wearing that tan polo shirt that’s just a little to tight around his biceps and chest area, he said he was trying to look professional even though he’s just wearing regular jeans for bottoms. Though his belt around his hips did make him look a little more distinguished.  

It’s safe to say your thighs squeeze together often when around him. The ovulation cycle making you particularly horny this week. Or maybe it’s the way Jack seems just the littlest bit nervous. 

You’ve zoned out for too long. Amy is talking but you hardly understand a word she’s saying. Jack will explain it all to you later at lunch, but for now she’s writing on her desk and opening up a drawer pulling something plastic out. 

“—and I’d like to take a semen sample for sperm count evaluation. If that’s okay.” 

She’s handing Jack a clear cup inside of a plastic bag. Asking as if he has a choice. Pathetically, Jack takes it. 

“Not a problem.” He half smiles. Almost like she didn’t secretly just say “I need a nice amount of your cum to study.”

“Great. There’s a private room just out the door to your left.” Amy points behind him before turning to you. “And while he’s doing that I’d like to draw some blood work and also get set up for a pelvic exam.” 

Jack turns to you, as if he’s about to get up to walk away. It’s hard to hold in the slight laughter because you know he’s about to go jerk off in a public place. Most places would throw you in jail for masturbating in public. But here it’s completely fine. 

Yet Jack still has those soft, caring eyes for you. “You gonna be okay?” 

Blood work— x-ray. Right now it sounds like a lot. But its not your first rodeo, you’re a big girl having gone to the doctors before. You can spend thirty minutes without your husband. 

“Yeah.” Jack gets up and presses a sweet kiss to your lips. Chaste, but still meaningful. “Go have fun.” 

Jack gives you a look, a small dead pan before giving you a wink. You watch as he walks out of the room. Keeping your eyes trained on his ass just like he would do for you. 

When you turn back to Amy she’s already standing. 

“Ready to go?” 

Your tests were fairly easy. A little needle prick and one ultrasound later, you were back in the room with Amy. 

“I’ll get those tests back in about thirty minutes and I’ll tell you the results.” 

You nod. And when you walk through the big doors, you see a certain missing husband has not returned. Both your brows furrow. But Amy shrugs. 

“Oh. He’s not back yet. It’s fine. I have some more things I’d like to go over with you.” 

Sitting back in your original seat you wait again, but your mind wonders back to Jack. You’ve been taking tests for thirty minutes and he’s still not back yet. It’s not weird. But it’s kinda weird. 

Amy sits down and pulls the computer closer to her. While she’s clicking on buttons and saying something like “I’m just gonna pull up your chart here…” You’re pulling out your phone. 

You click on Jack’s contact. It really has been thirty minutes and the more you think about it, the more you worry for him. 

Having fun in there?

You shoot the text. Sitting up straight in your chair you’re definitely not expecting a response back so soon when your phone buzzes on your lap. 

The most fun. 

You hide a smile. You can imagine him pulling down his pants half way with his dick hanging out and leaking. What you can’t imagine is why it’s taking so long. 

Then hurry up, we’re waiting on the test results to get back. 

About that…

Your brows furrow. You sneak a glance at Amy but she’s still looking at the computer screen. You can hear the clicking of the mouse pad. 

What did you do this time?

I can’t get hard. 

You want to gawk. Except not here, and not now in front of this nice doctor. But those words have only come out of Jack’s mouth maybe twice in your entire marriage. Your fingers quickly type against the keyboard of your phone.

You’re not that old yet. 

Idk what’s wrong! 

Jack, this is really ruining our baby making ability. 

Oh really? Sorry I was under the impression we didn’t need cum to procreate and the fucking storks were going to bring us a child. 

You can hear the sarcasm through the text. You can imagine the huff Jack would be letting out right about now and it makes you want to smile. 

Stay where you are. 

What?!?!

“So I’ve found—” 

You cut Amy off— bless her soul— and softly ask for the bathroom. She nods and tells you where, but your mind zones out. Because if you heard it right, there was a private room that Jack was inside and you were so going to tease him about this. 

Out the door, to the left, down a hall, and soon there is a door on your right with the words “private room” written on it. You knock rapidly a few times. Voice a little louder than usual. 

“Someone call for a sex worker?” 

Jack peaks his head through the door and lets his eyes wander up and down your body as if examining you. 

“Yeah, that was fast. We gotta keep this on the down low so my wife doesn’t find out.” 

You scoff, but only to hide your smile. Even after years of being married to him he’s still annoyingly funny. Sarcastic comments making a grin splay across your face throughout the day. 

You shove past him and into the room. It’s smaller than imagined and has a big worn loveseat with a small side table. There’s a rack full of playboy magazines hanging by the wall along with some lube, hand sanitizer, and tissues. Jack is gracious enough to close the door behind you and lock it. 

Picking one of the magazines up you show Jack the front cover. There’s a picture of a woman arching her back against the bed, sheet hardly covering her breasts. 

“This isn’t doing it for you?”

Jack looks at the cover but hardly for more than a few seconds before meeting your gaze. 

“You know I read that one through. There’s some pretty lingerie in that one and I think we should head to the mall after—”

You huff a breath and put the magazine back roughly, crossing your arms over your chest. Jack seems to get it now, this is serious. Or as serious as it can be when you’re told to jerk off in a shitty private room. 

“Why can’t you get hard?” 

“The stress— the pressure— is all a lot sweetheart.” 

Jack looks nervous, his ears are tinted pink and his whole posture is wound up tight. You’ll give him grace just this one time, letting your arms fall to your side with a small sigh. 

“Okay… what have you tried then?” 

Jack slides past you and sits on the couch, he sinks deep down into it and spreads his legs before handing you his phone. 

“Tried everything.” 

He looks a little disappointed, not meeting your gaze and when you open up his phone the first thing you’re greeted with was pictures of you. Looking like they could have gone on the cover of those playboy magazines. 

It’s so sweet you almost want to coo at him. Looking at your nudes he has saved. But your eyes dart to where the crotch of his pants are, where the stupid belt buckle rests, and there’s nothing there. 

“Did you think about the time on the cruise ship?” 

Jacks eyes bore into you. He sends you an almost death glare and you watch as his cheeks flame up into the lightest shade of pink. Though it fades fast. You know he’s really embarrassed when his voice changes a pitch higher when he throws his head back. 

“Yes. I thought about the time on the cruise.” 

You hum. He really is at a little bit of a dead end. But there’s still the real thing. Or as close as the real thing you can get. You sit down next to him on the couch. It’s still for a moment before your voice rings out loud and confident. 

“Let me take your clothes off.” 

Jack stares at you for a moment, his lips curve up into the prettiest smirk and you can see the gears turning inside his head. 

“At least ask me out to dinner first.” 

“I’m serious.” 

Your hand immediately goes under his shirt, lifting. He’s warm and relaxes under your touch a little bit before catching your wrist. 

“Sweetheart we can’t contaminate the goods.” He nods to where the plastic cup is on the tiny side table and you shrug. 

“I won’t.” 

Jack looks doubtful but lets you continue anyway with taking his shirt off. 

“Just close your eyes.” 

You whisper softly, and as soon as his arms are out of the holes of his shirt you wrap the fabric around his head, kinda as a makeshift blindfold. It starts to fall immediately and Jack laughs. 

“Shut up—” you tilt his head just so and make sure his shirt isn’t in the way of his nose or ears. Pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Just listen to me okay?” 

“I’m all yours baby.”

His words make you smile freely, stupidly. But your hands run down his chest. Over his pecks and down to his stomach. You glide your hands down his sides and to his v-line. 

You watch him shift his hips a little. Practically begging to become naked, and you relent. Undoing his belt buckle and the zipper of his jeans, he lifts his hips up and you pull everything down all the way to his ankles.

Trailing at a snails pace, you run your fingernails over his hairy thighs. You hear the slight change in breath but when you look at his cock it’s still soft. 

“Remember why we’re doing this.” 

You whisper as your hand slides closer and closer to his pelvis. Jacks head rolls back and his neck is out on display, scruff practically begging to leave little red welts on your face. 

“To get me pregnant, right?” 

Jack groans, it’s deep from his throat and you go to press a slow achingly desperate kisses on his neck. 

“Yeah. I— I wanna get you pregnant.” He begs, and you nod. Leaving an imaginary trail of kitten kisses from his neck to chest. 

Jack can’t see your hand, but his hand juts out. Fingers opened wide as if he’s looking for your hand. You give it to him graciously and he squeezes it three times. 

“I know you do.” You breathe, and finally you watch as his dick twitches the tiniest bit. It was almost too easy. “Wanna see me full huh? Walking around all helpless, with your baby.” 

Jack nods. Every once in a while you can see his eyebrows furrowing from under the shirt. You have a feeling he’s enjoying this. 

“Come on honey. Tell me about it. Tell me how you wanna get me pregnant.” 

Usually Jack is great with dirty talk. But right now, he’s licking his lips like his mouth is dry and at a loss for words. Your hand goes down to touch at his dick. He’s sensitive and you can feel the blood flowing down to it, making it warm and hard. 

“You’d be on the bed. Ass up face down.” 

“Mhm.” 

You hum. Nodding for him to continue. He has that slightly darker voice now, the one when he purposefully tries to make you all flustered. You twist your body just enough to grab at the clear cup. Undoing the top for it and in your other hand squirting some lube.

“Gonna rock your shit for hours. Spank that ass, because you know how much I love your ass.” 

As if to show you, his hand that’s not holding yours comes down, touching at your hip before going behind and gripping at the plump flesh. 

Your lubed up hand goes to touch his dick and Jack hisses. Giving a few tentative tugs, you feel him hardening in your palm. A soft moan slipping out of Jack’s lips. 

“Keep going baby.” 

You mumble and do a soft swing of your hips to edge him on. His hand travels down your body now. Grasping at all his favorite spots. 

“M’gonna make you moan loud. Beg for it. G’nna watch your little pussy take it all.” Jack’s hand squeezes at your sides before trailing up to your chest. Grasping at the heavy weight of your breasts. “Oh fuck I can’t wait till these are full.” 

When he’s hard enough you start to do slow tugs, smearing the lube around, up and down. Chastising him softly for the comment. “Jack.” 

“It’s true.” 

There’s no shame in his voice when you’re edging him on. He grips softly at your tits, massaging them through the layers of fabric.  

“Can’t wait for them to be heavy and dripping. Fucking wonderful you can feed our children with these. Can’t wait for you to be heavy and whiny. M’gonna be there baby. At your every whim.” 

You’re glad Jack has the blindfold on because you’re smiling wide. You’d like to believe this isn’t just dirty talk, and that he actually means all of it. That he really wants this baby just as much as you do. 

“Oh fuck— you’re a miracle worker.” 

Jack’s dick is now fully hard in your hand. Five minutes ago Jack thought he wouldn’t be able to get hard. Doomed to go home and have to jerk off and send all his swimmers through the mail. Which doesn’t sound like a big deal, but it is when you’re trying to have a baby and want one fast. 

You kiss Jack’s lips. Soft, with a hint of passion. He’s the sweetest. His hand drops from your tit and up onto your jaw, pushing your faces close together. Minds getting lost in each other. 

You feel Jack’s cock twitching in your hold with every up and down thrust and sloppy twist. You pull away, Jack follows because he doesn’t want to break the kiss. But you go back further than he can catch you. 

“Doing so good for me baby.” 

Jack wasn’t a huge exhibitionist. Probably why he couldn’t get hard in the first place. But if there’s a clearing in the trees, he’s not opposed to doing it in the back seat of his car. 

Jack groans again beside you. This time his hand comes down on-top of yours and guides you to go a little faster. “Nu-uh. You’re doing so good baby. Making me feel amazing— ohh fuck m’gonna give it to you so good when we’re home.” 

You bite your lip. He sounds wrecked and looks so pretty with the blindfold on his eyes and his mouth agape. Any other time you would use that to your full advantage, but not now. Not when it’s all about him. 

Wet squelches echo off of the small room walls, hitting your ears and making your thighs clench. Clit throbbing at the sight. You really hope he makes do with that promise about when you get home, because there’s definitely a damp spot between your legs.

You squeeze his hand that’s holding yours once, and Jack returns the gesture no matter how fucked out he is. You watch as his hips jerk up a few times, you want to let him ride it out. He’s so pretty like this, till you remember why you’re here in the first place.

“Uh… yeah, just like that honey.” 

You snatch the plastic cup from your side and position his dick down, pointing it into the rim of the cup. Jack doesn’t seem to know or even care. Quickly grabbing at the arm of the couch or digging into your skin. 

Jack rambles when he’s getting close, yet it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard, even when he’s repeating the same thing over and over. 

“M’so close—” it sounds like he’s struggling. “Right there baby. Gonna cum so hard f’r you. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—” 

And finally with a groan you watch the tip of his dick spill white hot cum into the plastic cup. The first two spurts are rough, hitting directly into the jar, after that there’s less and it lands on his chest and on the ground no matter how hard you try to get it all in. 

“Good job honey.” You coo, slowing down your thrusts and making sure to milk every last drop from him. Watching as the hot liquid drips a few more times until Jack finally stops you with a hand on your wrist. 

Jack removes his blindfold— his shirt— and watches as you cap off the tiny cup. Putting it in the plastic bag for him. You look oddly pleased. 

“Well, seems like you got a little cleaning up to do.”

You gesture to Jack’s chest and he shakes his head. Still leaning back against the couch he looks like a painting. One you would buy in seconds for your secret sex room. If you ever had one. 

Jack waves his hand in a come hither motion and you don’t think twice. Meeting him halfway for another long, lung aching kiss. Stealing your breath for himself. The selfish bastard. 

When you pull away and look into his eyes, they’re half lidded like he’s suddenly tired. 

“Better than the cruise ship?” You ask softly. 

Jack scoffs. “Nothing beats the cruise ship honey.” 

Your eyes narrow, almost looking offended at his words and you slowly walk backwards to the door. 

“Do not underestimate me, Abbot.” 

Jack lifts up his arms in defeat. Yeah, definitely tired after one orgasm. Old man. He’s shucking up his boxers and jeans and redoing his belt as your hand touches the door knob. 

“I’m gonna go out first and then you can come in five minutes afterwards so it doesn’t look like I jerked you off okay?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to make the old springs squeal beneath you and Jack’s first hiss isn’t one of pleasure.

“Shut. Up.” 

His hand closes around your jaw before the laugh can properly make it out, fingers digging into the hinge just shy of painful. His thumb finds the soft under of your chin and presses until your mouth falls open for him.

It’s supposed to be corrective, presumably. Intimidating. To make you reconsider whatever smart thing you were about to say.

Instead, you turn your head just enough to catch the heel of his palm between your teeth. Salt. Sunscreen. Jack.

You bite down lightly and watch the quick flare in his eyes that says try me again.

It makes you want to try him again.

This is perhaps your most enduring character defect, the congenital need to worry at Jack Abbot until something gives, to poke one finger into every concealed pressure point and keep pressing until that pleasant facade finally fractures and you get the man underneath, irritated and looking at you like patience is a finite natural resource you have personally exhausted.

Conveniently, this defect has also made the two of you very easy to hide.

Wanting Jack has never looked substantially different than hating him. Same symptoms, really. 

At work it manifests as narrowed eyes across the nurses’ station, remarks delivered half an octave louder than necessary, shoulders knocking in hallways wide enough to accommodate two functioning adults.

In private, the argument merely changes medium.

You end up underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips while he fucks every complaint back into you, and somehow neither of you has to concede the point.

That is, more or less, what is happening now.

Jack is attempting to fuck a confession out of you, specifically the admission that he had been right when he told you not to challenge the ocean after three frozen margaritas and one declaration that rip currents were mostly “a mindset.”

In your defense, this had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. The ocean disagreed.

You made it maybe six yards before a wave hit your broadside, folded you clean in half, stole your sunglasses, and deposited you at Jack’s feet with enough seaweed caught in your bikini to suggest the beginnings of marine conservation.

You called him an insufferable bastard for saying he told you so. 

Now he keeps insisting he “rescued” you because he hauled you upright by the waist while you sputtered saltwater.

He would like an apology. You would like him dead. Compromise remains unlikely. You would swallow your own tongue before giving him the satisfaction. 

You nip him again, sharper this time, then grin around his thumb. “Go on — make me. You’ve been trying all day.” 

“Fucking brat.” He drags his thumb free, replacing it with two thick fingers that press insistently at your tongue. “Keep talking and I’ll stuff you so full the only word you remember is sorry.” 

He’s close to delivering on that promise, hips battering the breath from your lungs until all you can do is claw the navy sheets below you.

You almost give him the noise he’s hunting for, but feeding Jack’s ego has never been on your to-do list, so you smother the sound and glare your defiance instead.

You clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to make him grunt, and he jerks back, slick digits slipping free. 

“Jesus — watch the teeth,” he growls, shaking the sting before flattening your wrist to the mattress. “You want a muzzle, sweetheart?” 

You swipe your tongue over enamel, savoring the residue. “So many threats, Doctor. I’m starting to think you’re all talk.” 

“Careful,” Jack murmurs with a hollow laugh. “You might hurt my feelings.”

He apparently decides conversation has exhausted its usefulness.

One second you are on you looking at him; the next he has you flipped facedown, dragged your hips into the air, and buried himself back inside you with enough force to make the entire bed complain in sympathy. 

His chest covers your back, breath searing the shell of your ear. A half-moan, half-sob cracks loose out of you, palms skidding for purchase as your pelvis jerks forward as if distance could blunt the stretch, make it more manageable.

Jack only laughs again, settling both hands over your shoulder blades as he lets his weight weld you to the sheets.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Each thrust stakes you there, sensation cresting so hot the edges of the room tremble out of focus and into watercolors.

You mash your face into the pillow, trying to hide the choked noises bleeding from you but they seep through cotton and feathers just the same.

“Listen to you,” he croons, mock-tender, thumb stroking a false comfort along your spine. He grinds you down while he pushes in again, slow enough you feel the catch of every ridge. “So fucking mouthy until I start making you feel good.” 

His hand snakes beneath you, palm burning a trail down your stomach until two fingers find your clit. The first tight circle detonates in your core. Supernova heat.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t fight common sense,” he purrs. “Just admit it — You were right, Jack. Should’ve trust you. Smartest guy I know. That’s all I want.” Another figure-eight of his thumb, another planet collision behind your eyes. “I keep you safe, I make you feel good — why’s it so hard to give me a little credit?”

“Because — you’re such — a cocky — asshole,” you gasp, the insult dissolving into a helpless whine when his thumb presses harder. 

“Dirty mouth on you,” Jack tuts. “C’mon, honey. Be sweet for ten little seconds — tell me I’m right — and I’ll let you come.”

You give him nothing but a furious side-to-side wobble, hair stuck wetly across your cheeks.

He can make your thighs shake and turn your brain into warm soup but he cannot make you surrender a point you are still technically convinced is yours. 

The knot low in your belly winds tighter in retaliation, every muscle beginning that little climb towards something inevitable, and then Jack simply stops.

Fingers gone. Thrust halted. He holds himself inside you like a blade sheathed to the hilt, every inch throbbing but inert, punishment by deprivation. 

Your muscles fire once more on instinct, grasping at a phantom that’s already gone, walls twitching uselessly around empty air.

The knot loosens with insulting patience — twist, release, release — until climax slips from reachable to hypothetical. 

A brittle, involuntary sound hooks in your throat, proof that your body has accepted what your mind refuses to: Jack Abbot means to leave you suspended in this awful limbo until you fold. 

“Please — no.” You writhe beneath him in shallow arcs, powerless under the weight pinning you. “Need you — need you to keep going.” 

He slips a broad palm under your jaw, lifting your mouth off the pillow for your gasps to reach him unfiltered. “You know what I need, honey. Say the words, and I’ll give you everything you’re begging for.” 

“I — I’m sorry,” you finally spit out. “You were right, Jack. Always are. Just — please — don’t stop.” 

The words hit like blood in the water. He buries himself with a hoarse snarl, rhythm turning brutal, inexorable, as though the apology were a starting gun. Wood knocks hard against the plaster wall and your body jolts forward with every drive.

“Was that so hard?” His voice drips triumph while his teeth worry a shallow crescent into your shoulder. “Christ, sweetheart, what’re you always fighting me for? You know I’m gonna get my way.” 

The only reply you manage is a shaky “uh-huh — ah, Jack —” strangled into the pillow, every syllable climbing higher until it breaks apart in a thin, urgent keen that tells him exactly how close you are. 

“There you go, pretty girl. Give it to me — yeah, just like that.” 

That’s all it takes.

Your body locks, squeezes, and he answers with a raw-throated groan, bracing you inside the bracket on his arms while your trembling tries to shake both of you off the bed.

Then everything goes incandescent. A long, rushing hush, white and depthless, flooding every corner of your mind as you come all over his length.

Somewhere inside all that brightness, Jack loses whatever rhythm he had left.

He lasts two more strokes. 

“Fuck — sweetheart.” His hips snap tight against your ass, burying himself as deep as he can go, filling you in heavy surges that make your already-softened core flutter all over again. 

You barely understand it at first, only feel another strange wave roll through you, your body squeezing reflexively around every throb until his arms tighten and his forehead drops heavily between your shoulder blades. 

Jack stays folded over you until both your breathing begins to settle, the hard rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing against your spine.

When he finally moves, it is with considerably more care than anything he has done in the last thirty minutes.

He withdraws from you slowly, and your cunt manages one useless twitch at the emptiness he leaves behind. Pathetic, really, but apparently it's all the reaction your spent body can afford.

Sensing the weakness, the bastard takes advantage.

He rolls you onto your other side until you're nose-to-nose, the world tilting under the authority of a man rearranging furniture. Normally, you'd bark at him to ask first. Right now you just marvel that you're the furniture.

You blink at him through the pleasant cotton packed between your ears.

Jack studies the damage he's done, mouth curling like he's content with his handiwork, then lowers himself to press a kiss above your hipbone.

He works upward without hurry, lips brushing warm over skin still prickling with aftershocks, teeth occasionally catching in a light nip that makes you squirm before he kisses the same place better.

Your fingers slide into the silver-flecked hair at his temples, nails scratching lightly until you feel the growl rumble against your ribs.

“Funny how suddenly you like me again.”

“Like is generous.” You give the silver strands at his temple a tug. “Give me five minutes. I’ll remember everything I hate about you.”

“Mm. I can do a lot with five minutes.” He lifts his head just enough to give you that smug, crooked look.

“Four and a half now.”

Jack laughs, apparently delighted by the threat of your imminent return to hostility, and works his way up until there is nowhere left between you for him to kiss.

He folds down beside you and takes your mouth one final time before you can decide whether final kisses are perhaps too affectionate for people who supposedly cannot stand each other.

“Better use ’em wisely, then.”

He does, in fact, use them wisely. Spending what remains of his allotted minutes with his mouth between your thighs and apparently deciding there is some obscure world record for orgasms induced out of spite that he intends to break before sunrise.

But by breakfast, the consequences have arrived.

You sit at the island with a fork slack between your fingers, pancakes cooling untouched beneath a generous pour of syrup.

Your eyelids keep flirting with gravity; every time they drop Jack clears his throat in exaggerated warnings, as if falling face-first into breakfast would somehow be his fault.

It would be. Somehow. You'd make it so.

“Late night?” Frank asks from across the island, not bothering to look up from whatever he’s doing to his coffee.

Your head lifts approximately half an inch.

“No, I'm fine,” you say, far too quickly. You hear it the second it leaves your mouth, that bright little note of guilt you have apparently developed overnight, and clear your throat before anyone else can appreciate it. “I'm fine. Just tired. All that swimming yesterday wore me out.”

Dana, standing at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, lets out a thoughtful hum as she rinses a plate.

“Funny, everyone seems to be dragging this morning,” she remarks, flicking water off her wrist. “Can’t imagine why.”

“I can.” Robby lifts his mug. “Some of us were awake until two in the morning. Against our will.”

There is a tiny, merciful interval where you almost misunderstand him.

Of course people were awake. There are more than twenty coworkers crammed into one beach house, sleeping on couches and air mattresses and whatever other horizontal surfaces they could claim before someone else did.

Somebody is always awake. Somebody is always opening a refrigerator or flushing a toilet or talking too loudly in the hallway.

But when you finally drag your eyes up from your pancakes and find several people already looking at you with expressions ranging from tired amusement to outright accusation, the alternate interpretation arrives all at once.

They heard you. They heard Jack. Possibly extensively.

Fuck.

You lower your eyes and shovel another piece of pancake into your mouth.

Then again, maybe they're staring for some completely unrelated reason. A syrup stain, bed hair, the fact that you still haven't blinked in ten seconds.

“So, Jack,” Trinity suddenly says from the other side of the island, casual enough that for one stupid second you don’t hear the trap opening beneath your feet, “how's it feel being right all the time?”

You keep chewing.

“I mean, so right,” she adds, her voice climbing into a suspiciously breathy imitation. “The rightest man alive, apparently.”

The pancake becomes significantly harder to swallow as a hot ribbon of mortification slides up your throat. You manage a strangled cough and focus on sawing your next bite into pieces the size of atoms so you don't have to lift your head and meet anyone's eyes.

Without missing a beat, Jack wipes a smear of syrup from his thumb and shrugs. “Feels pretty nice, if I’m honest.”

“You are such a smug little —”

“Language,” Dana cuts in from the sink without even turning around.

You clamp your lips together, cheeks still burning, then lean just enough into Jack’s line of sight and mouth, shit.

His smirk cuts sideways across his face, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before coming back up darker than they were a second ago. His nostrils flare faintly, then his thighs spread another inch beneath the island as he leans back.

A minute repositioning of his hips that would mean nothing to anybody else and means everything to you because you know exactly what Jack looks like when his body gets ahead of his better judgment.

“Ew,” Trinity says suddenly, pointing between you and Jack with her fork. “This is flirting, isn’t it? You two have just been doing foreplay in front of us for, like, years.”

Robby grimaces. “Freaks.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you insist, despite the heat steadily colonizing your entire face.

Jack undermines you immediately as he shoots you a wink. “It’s worked pretty well for us.”

Your eyes widen ten sizes. “Shut. Up.”

His grin only gets worse, teeth showing this time, and something about that makes you want to kick his ankle under the island just to restore the natural order of things.

Frank shakes his head. “Get a room.”

“We had one. Apparently that was the problem,” Jack says.

A chorus of disgusted groans answers him.

MARIA NOTE jack abbot getting pussy as a direct consequence of being annoying… terrible precedent to set actually 🍋🫧🌀 HOPE YOU ENJOY I LOVE YOU ALLLL

Cardinal’s leash remained firmly gripped in your hand as you followed the guard past the front entrance. His paws pittered-pattered against the tile flooring, echoing in the long hall along with your footsteps. Every so often, his side would brush against your calf before he righted himself only to bump you once again after a few moments. His presence kept you calm; prison—even if you weren’t the one in handcuffs and a jumpsuit—made everyone nervous, and you were no exception. 

If this were any other place, Cardinal would heel frozen at your feet, nose bumping into the flesh of your leg to signal that something deep inside you was unsettled. He wasn’t a certified therapy dog, not after he’d growled too much and refused to give up his toys during training, but the deeply instilled instinct to protect and comfort remained wired into his brain. He’d been a gift from your parents. 

You need something to look after you while you’re off getting your master’s your father had stated before you finally left the coup of your hometown. Since you don’t have a boyfriend, we’ll get you the next best thing. 

And the next best thing happened to be a two-year-old doberman, fresh from failing training, who, upon meeting you, never once left your side. With his baby blue collar and harness, the matching set starkly contrasting his inky coat, he served as your sole protector through the move to Sacramento almost a year ago and apparently now while you walked deeper into the Folsom State Prison’s belly to be a part of their “Canines for Comfort” rehabilitation-slash-rehab program, which had been instated around the time you started year one of school. 

You had signed up and sent in an application on a whim, something to help fill the odd space in your Saturdays a few hours after sleeping in where you weren’t hungry enough for lunch but didn’t want to just sit around twiddling your thumbs. Their approval had come swiftly, and before you knew it, you’d made the hour drive to arrive for your first session. Up ahead, the guard stopped at a plain, gray door that didn’t have a window. 

“With me,” you muttered, and Cardinal sat almost on top of your feet. 

“Session starts in five minutes. There are seats in there; choose one and stay in it during the duration of the thirty minutes,” he gruffed. 

A low groan rumbled down by your feet at his bluntness, and you were quick to hiss a small sht towards your companion. It didn’t take much to get Cardinal to quiet, but even you could tell that the longer you stood there, the more he was getting unnerved. 

Thankfully, the guard tapped a keycard on the lock and the automatic click boomed loudly. He pushed down on the handle before swinging the door wide open to reveal the few people and dogs already in there. You, obviously, were the last one. 

“Up,” you said as you took the first step toward the threshold. 

Cardinal trotted in tandem with your stride and paid no attention to the others in the room, deep eyes locked on your face even if you were looking around. In one corner of the large, almost classroom-like room, an older woman sat with a dopey golden retriever panting at her feet. In the one adjacent, a middle-aged man stood, back pressed to the wall, hand wrapped around a lead that connected to a very sleepy beagle. You thanked the air. If someone got him howling, there’d be no stop. And across the empty corner—the one that you were supposed to “choose” even if it was the only nonoccupied one left—a college-aged girl nervously looked around, fingers fiddling with the hair of her collie that was half sitting in her lap. 

You took the chair. “Feet.” 

With a small pushed out groan, Cardinal plopped down on his stomach, legs out in front of him, head held high. Your left hand splayed across his head while your right kept a hold of his leash. The session was going to be co-ed and only available to prisoners who kept a good rep with impeccable behavior, but that still didn’t do much to calm the lapping wave of anxiety in your stomach. 

Eyeing the guard who stayed by the door, you noted the way he kept his hands next to his weapon. Only the sound of the secondary door on the other side opening got you to look the other way. As the first few prisoners trickled in, wrists held close together with metallic chains, you sat up a bit straighter. A few of them glanced your way, but as you thought, most of them seemed to gravitate toward the . . . friendly looking dogs, especially the golden retriever who looked like he’d never met a stranger. 

Cardinal huffed, sides filling with air before deflating, and his head lowered until it fit between the slots of his feet. You bent at the waist to give his head another small pat and rub. So focused on him, though, you missed the one person approaching you slowly until his feet stopped mere inches away from Cardinal’s. You stayed bent, but your neck craned until your eyes met peered hazel ones that flickered downward and then back to your face. 

You sat up straight, the plastic chair creaking under the sudden change in position, and squared your shoulders. “Hi.” 

The man drenched in God-awful orange didn’t reply. His lips curled in a thin line, and his hands clenched and unclenched near his navel. You watched as he shifted his weight, body tense like he wanted to speak and move but held back. You quickly looked around. If you had another chair, you’d offer it to him, but the only ones seemed to be occupied by the dog owners. 

“Um, there’s not an extra chair, but . . .” you trailed, lip catching between your teeth. “I can always stand up and let you sit or—” 

Still without answering, he started to lower to the ground instead until he was fully seated, legs crossed in front of him. His head tilted slightly to the side, and his eyes didn’t look away from Cardinal, yet, he made no motion to reach out and pet him. 

You leaned back down and placed a hand on your dog’s head. “He’s friendly,” you said, hand dragging down his fur. “Might growl at first, but I swear he won’t bite your hand.” You paused before adding, “Unless you have food. Then he might not be able to tell the difference between that and your fingers.” 

A deep feeling in your chest wanted him to crack a smile or actually acknowledge he was being talked to, but when his lips stayed flat, eyes unwavering. He didn’t even flinch when it appeared Cardinal got too impatient to be pet and lifted off the ground to get a closer smell. You smiled as his nose twitched while he carefully inched forward. 

Then, finally, the man reached out before keeping his hand held in the air, letting Cardinal come to him instead of forcing a connection. A small, warning growl accompanied a curled lip to show off his canines, but the man didn’t cower. Almost like he needed your approval as well before fully giving into the outreached hand, Cardinal turned his head back towards you, and you slightly laughed. 

“You big doaf,” you teased. “Go on.” 

That’s all you had to say for Cardinal to dive right into the man’s lap, tongue hanging out of his mouth as his full body wriggled around. The man gave him the most gentle pets you’d ever seen someone do. It made you wonder if he was scared of himself with the way he held back. He stayed firmly upright despite Cardinal jumping around, putting his paws on the man’s chest, and even going around him as far as the leash would allow to nose at his spine before plopping back down into the lap made by criss-crossed-applesauced legs. 

You stayed quiet and watched the two mess around. Because your companion wasn’t the most trusting of men, it’d been a while since you’d seen Cardinal get to rough house around with someone that could take it. You weren’t weak at all, but with the amount of energy stored in that lithe black and brown body, most times you ended up curled in a ball on the floor as he continued relentless play attacks at your sides and back.  

After a few minutes, Cardinal settled fully as he draped himself across the man’s legs, chest rapidly rising and falling in low pants. Big hands continued running down his short coat in long strokes. 

“What’s his name?” 

The sound of his voice caught you off guard, the addition to the small three-way circle so sudden it sent your head reeling before you blinked the stunned feeling away. You tried not to note that he had a nice voice. But it was impossible and slotted in the back of your mind. 

“Cardinal,” you managed to sputter out. 

Definitely not attractive. 

“Cardinal,” he parroted, and the most magic thing followed: the corners of his lips curled barely by a hair. “Nice name.” 

“I’m glad you think so. I originally wanted to go with Bishop, but I knew a guy with that name in high school, and he was a grade-A asshole,” you babbled. “And I think Cardinal fits him much better.” Your fingers fiddled with the leash. “My name’s (Y/n) . . . if you were wondering.” 

He—still the unnamed prisoner—lifted his eyes to meet yours. 

“And you probably weren’t wondering,” you backtracked with a sigh, cheeks heating just a bit under his gaze. 

“(Y/n).” He nodded once. “Nice name.” 

The heat flooded down your neck, and you shyly murmured a thank you. His hazel eyes returned to the puddle of dog between his legs. 

“Can you tell me more about him?” he asked. 

“Oh, sure,” you responded, shifting in your seat as though this were an interview. “He just turned three last week, but I swear he still thinks he’s a puppy. His favorite toy is a stuffed white puppy; he literally cannot sleep without it. Um, we do bite work every Monday night, and then advanced protection on Thursdays. And—” 

“All right, that’s it for today,” a low voice near the exit door cut you off, and it was as if a switch had been turned off in the man. 

The barely-there breath of a smile dropped instantly, and his back went rigid, hands stopping along near Cardinal’s ribs before ripping away back to his lap. Confused at the lack of pets, Cardinal stood back up and nose nudged near his jaw, but the man was already pushing up from the floor. 

You also stood up once he got to full height. “Well, it was nice meeting you . . .” 

He glanced over to where the prisoners were already lining up before quietly offering, “Andrew.” 

You repeated him just as quiet. A small secret shared. Two names for one; something to hold onto until the next time. 

“Thank you for sitting with us,” you said. “He really likes you.” 

As though to reinforce your statement, Cardinal all but put his snout into the space between Andrew’s shackled hands, squeezing a soft whine into the air. 

“Cody!” the guard barked. “In line.” 

Andrew tensed before slowly turning around without a second glance back to you, and just like that, it was only you, the other three dog owners, and the one guard who led you in left in the room. The moment the door locked shut with the prisoners on the other side, the three hounded in on you, questions pouring from their mouths. 

“How on earth did you do that?” the older lady asked above the others. 

Your brows pinched tightly. “Do what?” 

Her eyes flickered towards the door. “I’ve been here for five sessions, and not once has that man interacted with a dog much less the person as well. He never spoke and stood to the side like a creep.” 

A warning grumble reverberated from Cardinal just as you scoffed. 

“Maybe he just didn’t find anyone quiet enough to feel comfortable to approach,” you said, quick to defend the man who hadn’t even said twenty words to you in a span of the thirty minute session. “Go time,” you said before stepping away from the group with Cardinal right on your heels, falling back into a perfectly matched rhythm. 

Before even going into the session, you had wondered if this was going to be your first and final attendance, but when the sun shown brightly and warmed your skin and Cardinal pulled lightly on his leash, acting like he wanted to go back inside and sniff Andrew out, you decided that next week, you’d get back into your car and make the hour commute again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

With more anticipation than the last time, your knee bounced rapidly as you waited for the prisoners to trickle through into the room. You kept your eyes glued, and if someone had pointed it out, you would have realized that you and Cardinal had the same look: something yearning and waiting and excitement all jumbled and stuffed into your bodies. People did say that owners somehow picked dogs that looked like them without even realizing. 

You hadn’t even made Cardinal sit nicely at your feet again, and his little nubbed tail swished back and forth with a fast viciousness only saved for his favorite people, the list usually being just you. But now, you guessed Andrew’s name was right under yours. 

At the sound of the door being unlocked, you subconsciously leaned forward. The first few prisoners stepped out, and your breathing stopped as you mentally calculated how many were coming in. To keep everyone from being overwhelmed, only a handful of prisoners were allowed in, and you prayed that Andrew would be the next to step through the threshold. 

The corners of your lips curled upward when you finally spotted him in the mix, hair still cropped, hands still shackled, but unlike last week, he seemed more interested in what was going on. It only took him a moment to turn his face towards your small corner, and Cardinal let out a small happy yelp when he started to walk over. You allowed his leash to go slack enough to let him meet Andrew halfway, backside moving back and forth since his tail seemed to not be able to keep up. 

Andrew tried not to trip on the dog, keeping his eyes downward and his steps careful until he reached the spot where he sat the last time. His knees creaked just a bit as he lowered down to the ground and kept his feet out straight. Immediately, Cardinal hopped into his lap, rolling stomach up, the universal ask for belly rubs. 

With both hands, he started scratching along his soft under-belly coat. 

“Hi again,” you said gently. 

“Hi,” he greeted back even if he didn’t look up at you. “He seems happy.” 

“Oh, you have no idea. I could barely get him to sit in the car on the way over here. I think he missed you the entire week,” you said. 

His brows furrowed. “I’ve only met him once.” 

You shrugged before leaning down to drop the leash fully knowing Cardinal wasn’t going to dart at all. “That’s all it takes for a dog to decide if you’re their new favorite person or their arch nemesis for the rest of time.” 

“Oh.” He frowned, deeply thinking of what he’d done to be on the receiving end of such excitement from an animal. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Your growing smile stretched until your teeth showed. “Plus, he loves scratches and love pats, and you seem to be doing a pretty good job.” 

Andrew noticed that his hands had moved on from scratching to gently patting along Cardinal’s ribs in rhythmic motions. His mind raced to what the two of you had been talking about the last time before the session had ended. Normally, he wouldn’t be so invested in a person and dog, but there was something about the way you looked so soft yet fierce while your canine looked fierce while Cardinal didn’t hesitate to jump into his lap. 

“You said he did bite work?” 

“What?” you asked. 

His chin tilted downward, and he looked up at you through his eyebrows. “Last time. You said he did bite work.” 

“Oh yeah,” you breathed before giggling to yourself. “He has a lot of energy that can’t all be burned out from just going to a dog park or going for a run. So the moment I moved here, I looked into places that had training courses for him to go through. Plus it’s helpful.” 

“Helpful?” he echoed. 

“Yeah, ya know . . . if I ever get attacked or some guy comes after me.” You leaned down and settled a hand near Andrew’s on Cardinal's back. “He protects me.” 

“Has that ever happened before?” Andrew suddenly asked, almost personally confused as to why he did. 

The sessions weren’t supposed to be chat hours. He knew the prison offered this to get him to be more docile. If he didn’t attack the dogs, maybe he’d learn not to attack or hit others. This plus the meds they’d been giving him, he wasn’t sure how trusting he could be, and asking questions about your wellbeing was the complete opposite of being on the offense. 

Your eyes glanced down before you leaned back into the seat. “Once after I first moved. I don’t live on campus—I’m here to finish my masters—and after class, this one guy followed me home. I don’t know exactly why; I’d never seen him before, but he tried to corner me near my door. I had just gotten it open when he tried to grab me, and Cardinal came rushing out the door.” 

The more you talked, the more rage built in Andrew’s chest, simmering just below his skin. And instead of questioning why he felt this way, he gave into the feeling and clenched his hands. However, Cardinal, the everknowing soul, felt the change in him right away, and Andrew wasn’t ready for him to stand and press his cold nose into the side of his neck, huffing loudly near his ear. 

You laughed quietly after seeing how still Andrew had become, confusion on what to do next. Your fingers quickly found the dropped leash on the ground, but before you could give Cardinal a small tug, Andrew shook his head. 

“He’s okay,” he murmured. 

A wave of sadness crashed over you as you watched him try to wrap his arms around Cardinal but failed since the cuffs kept his wrists together. 

Maybe one day once he’s out, he can give Cardinal a full hug quickly flashed through your mind, to which you quickly shook your head to get rid of it. Once Andrew was out, he would disappear from your and Cardinal's life entirely. 

One glance toward the clock on the wall told you that only ten minutes remained for the session, and your heart clenched. The thirty minutes weren’t enough. 

“What are you in school for?” Andrew asked after a quiet moment, arms finally wrapped awkwardly around Cardinal’s neck, basically using him as an arm wrest. 

“Behavior sciences. I like knowing how people tick,” you replied. “Everyone acts differently, but I believe that at our base, we all have a need and want to be liked. It’s human nature to want to please. Kinda like dogs.” 

“Is that why you signed up for this?” he spat the last word. 

“A little. I think I wanted to find a way to help people since school doesn’t give me time to do extra volunteer hours during the week,” you provided. “I mean, one of our assignments was to find an outlet that could help, and I found Folsom’s application online.” 

“Oh.” 

“But,” you swiftly kept going, “we only had to go once for the grade.” 

Andrew looked back up at you. “Then why are you here?” 

“Well, Cardinal seemed to really like this one guy we met last week,” you teased, and he finally gave you more than a hint of a smile, lips pulling outward until lines appeared. 

“Just him?” 

You pretended to think, eyes looking upward to the ceiling. “Hmmmm, maybe not just Cardinal. I think I liked talking to the guy too.” 

A rosyness bloomed across Andrew’s face. 

You liked talking to him? Probably the first time someone ever said that, and his first instinct was a desperate want to hear you say it again. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

For the next two years, you always faithfully showed up to the sessions. During that time, you’d gotten to know some about Andrew’s life outside of the concrete walls. You learned that he was a twin, he had two younger brothers and an older adopted brother, whose wife he used to love, and that his father had died before he was born. 

He enjoyed skateboarding whenever he could get away from his mom. If he had a slow evening, he liked to listen to nature documentaries on the TV. He told you about his arrest, though barely giving you full details but enough that you decided he wasn’t in prison for the right reasons. Every time he spoke, you listened with intent, wanting to soak up any knowledge about the man you’d come to look forward to seeing every Saturday afternoon. 

In return, you told him about your own life. Unlike him, you were an only child, parents still living and married together. You were twenty-five; fifteen years his junior. Your favorite color was green despite Cardinal’s leash and halter being blue—he’d picked it out himself you told him through a fit of giggles. You confessed that after college, you really didn’t have a plan for your life, and that you preferred to go with the flow to see where you ended up. 

And somewhere along the way, untold to either, you both felt a certain care for the other. 

Andrew had felt drawn to you the moment you had told him that you liked that he was quieter and softer than the others, that he didn’t try to talk over you and remembered the smallest things you’d said. And every time you gave him a compliment like the time you mentioned hazel eyes were your favorite hues and that you enjoyed looking at them, his heart yearned for you a little bit more to the point he started being first in line for the sessions to get the smallest handful of seconds longer in your presence. 

You, on the other hand, started feeling something for him when he quietly defended Cardinal. One of the newer volunteers who started coming around five weeks after you started had loudly proclaimed that a Doberman wasn’t fit to be a therapy dog. You’d wanted to shut his comment down, protest that Cardinal had been approved just as his yappy, little rat Chihuahua had when Andrew slowly stood, faced the man, and berated him in front of everyone. You’d been scared that he’d get reprimanded, but the guards never did a thing.  

Through these small moments and honest conversations, Saturdays became both of your favorite days of the week. 

Well . . . that was until a random Saturday almost two years after you’d first signed up. 

The entire drive over, you were excited to tell Andrew that you’d passed your exams, meaning that graduation would be right around the corner for you. The second bit of exciting news was that you’d been offered a three-year contract for a job in Sacramento. You’d get to stay close, see him more often if he let you. School wouldn’t be in the way. 

Cardinal could sense your excitement in the air, and he matched your energy the entire way into Folsom. He bounded around your feet, not even listening to your small commands and corrections. Once inside, you were the first to take a seat, Cardinal finally sitting next to the chair like normal. 

The door unlocked, and the first few prisoners walked through, and your heart began to race. However, after the fifth and sixth prisoner, with Andrew not in sight, your stomach backflipped before sinking when the door closed. 

Andrew hadn’t made it through. There must have been a mistake. 

You pushed off the metal chair—the plastic one had broken during one of the sessions where Cardinal managed to push you off and down to his and Andrew’s level—and approached one of the guards. 

“Excuse me,” you meekly said, tensing under the man’s steeled gaze. “I’m wondering if Andrew Cody couldn’t make it today. Is he doing okay?”

“Sorry to tell you, but he was released a couple days ago.” 

You swallowed thickly. “What? He said he had another three to go—” 

“Got out on good behavior. Guess the Canine-Comfort thing did its job. Never seen such a violent man turn into someone normal.” 

A sneer pinched your face, and you had to fight the urge to tell him off that Andrew was always normal. A little lost in life, but he wasn’t an animal, wasn’t violent . . . at least towards you. But you found it hard to believe after being around him and his kindness for two full years, seeing nothing but the gentleness he gave you. 

You turned and looked around the room before looking back at the guard. “Am I able to leave early?” 

Quietly and quickly, he opened the door for you to slip through, and as you walked through the empty hall, Cardinal whined loudly. 

“I know, bud, I know,” you whispered. “I’m going to miss him too.”  

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Never once had you slipped Andrew’s mind, not even as a year passed since the last time he’d seen you and Cardinal. He hadn’t even known that the session before he got released was going to be the final time, and if he had, he probably would have done something reckless like tell you to find him once he got out. 

But the way he had to leave without even getting to say goodbye tore at his chest whenever you crossed his mind or when he saw a doberman walking on the street. If he imagined hard enough, he could morph whoever to have your soft hair and your sweet smile that Andrew believed to only be reserved for him. Distance made the heart grow fonder, but the longer he was away from you, the more his fondness turned into obsession. He looked for you in every aspect, and before he knew it, he was typing your name into his computer. 

To his chagrin, only your past references would ever be brought up in the search engine. He did see that you had graduated a few months after his release, but that meant that you were probably long gone by then. Andrew cursed himself. He hadn’t even told you where he lived. 

From then on, he learned to curb his wants and desires for you, only giving in under the cover of night. He’d imagine your voice next to his ear, your weight over his bare chest, fingers dragging down his pecs and abs as your hips rocked against his. His hand would dip below his shorts into his boxers, cock already hard and straining by the time he wrapped his hand around the length. His soft, warm shaft would already be wet and slick with precum. With tantalizing strokes and bucking pelvis, it wouldn’t take him long to cum in his pants by the mere thought of how you’d taste on his tongue.  

What really got him spurting though was when, instead of hearing moans and whimpers from your lips, he’d envision you giving him soft commands as you did to Cardinal. A down here, a speak there, a bite down as he filled you completely. And above all, he’d whimper hearing you give him a good boy if he managed to please and do what you’d asked. 

In the haze of orgasm before clarity would command his senses once again, he’d reach for his phone and google harnesses and leashes for people, only to swipe the tab away the next morning with burning cheeks. 

Though, those moments started to spread far and few between as his mother began to commandeer his life once again. But after he found out she’d been drugging his food, he left. Put the whole life behind him. 

He stayed close to Oceanside in case his brothers needed something, but the life of Pope Cody, criminal under his mother’s thumb, was over. With any hope of finding you again keeping his heart beating, he changed. Got a job—one that gave him money the legal way. Started skateboarding again. You’d be proud of him, at least, he believed you’d be proud of him. 

It wasn’t until one Saturday morning that his reason for life walked right on by without even stopping. 

He nearly fell off his skateboard, because there you were, tan and glowing under the sun. You looked a bit older, not as soft as he once knew you, but the world worked in funny ways like that. It dangled what you wanted the most after they’d been changed. And as he watched you walk away, Cardinal at your side, he wanted to say something—scream something, but he stayed silent. For as much as he begged to see you again, here was no telling if you'd actually wanted the same. 

So, Andrew stayed quiet, but that didn’t mean he stayed still. After you’d walked on a few feet, he fell into your invisible footprints along the sand-specked sidewalk. You were none the wiser, earbuds letting music flow too loudly to hear the outside world. He would have to have a discussion with you about that. There was only so much Cardinal could do if you were attacked unsuspectingly. Not knowing your surroundings terrified him to his core. 

He followed you for around thirty minutes, enjoying the walk along the way but also enjoying being around you after so long. His eyes trailed your back and the way your shoulder blades and muscles shifted beneath the tank top draped over your torso. The hazel hues lingered at the bottom hem that lifted with each step, revealing more of your ass that was perfectly sculpted by the tight green leggings. 

You only stopped when you reached a small white house and used a key to waltz in, and Andrew’s stomach clenched. You’d been living here. You’d only been less than an hour away this entire time. He could have had you sooner. 

But now? Now he knew where you lived. Someplace he could come to when you weren’t there. A home that you could possibly invite him in at some point. However, he wasn’t about to waste anymore time away from you. 

The next time he was out skating, he didn’t stay long, choosing to follow the memorized path back to your house. It wasn’t his fault you left a second key under a false rock, and it wasn’t his fault that you were out and about. He noted that you desperately needed a security system once he realized there was a lack of cameras. 

His footsteps were soft as he walked through the hallway and into the living room. The air smelled like a mix of your perfume—vanilla and salt air—and clean dog shampoo. Even if every aspect of your home held evidence that Cardinal lived there too in toys and the bed near the couch, he was grateful you kept it clear of dog hair. 

He moved on toward your bedroom and stopped in the threshold as though the space he was about to enter was too holy for him and his dirty soul. His eyes scanned each inch from your curtain choice to your bedspread: green gingham with white pillows. However, a sprawled piece of navy fabric caught his attention, and he gave into the urge to walk over. It wasn’t until he picked it up that he realized what it was. 

His large fingers fiddled with the lacy part of your underwear, thumb running along the hem before stopping at the gusset. There was no dampness, no leftover scent from what he could tell; the pair was clean, and that wouldn't do at all. He carefully laid it back down, spreading it as though he never picked it up in the first place and turned direction. 

Your closet was his next victim. His lower half peeked out around the door as he dug through the hamper of your dirty clothes. Your scent was thicker here. Not as sweet, but even more so addicting as it wafted upwards to his face. A small moan crawled up his throat, the sound echoing in your empty bedroom. 

However, as he continued digging around, he didn’t hear the soft sound of your door clicking shut or your footsteps as you walked in his direction. 

For one split second, you were terrified to see half of a man sticking out of your closet. Cardinal was currently at his handlers for one-on-one time; your one protector was gone the moment you needed him most. And yet, when the man pulled back, revealing the face of the man you’d been dreaming about for a year, your soul settled enough to let you watch what he did next. 

In his hands, yesterday's thong dangled between his thick fingers before he slowly brought it up to his nose. Your eyes stayed trained on his chest as it inflated deeply and a groan rumbled right out of it. Something inside you warmed at the scene even if you should have been calling the police. 

You shoved your hands into your pockets when he took another deep breath in and decided it was time to make your presence known. 

“You know,” you said, making Andrew’s eyes widen and hands drop to his sides. “If you missed me this much, you could have approached me normally. Unless this is your way of showing exactly what you’ve been wanting to do since we parted ways?” 

Your thong fell to the floor in a heap, and a redness crept up his neck and settled in his cheeks. He felt frozen, glued to the floor, unable to move even an inch under your hungry gaze. Your head tilted slightly when he made no move, made no attempt to apologize or explain what he was doing. 

“Andrew, come here,” you stated, slightly joking. 

However, your words seemed to light something in his mind, and he quickly walked over to you in large strides until mere inches were left between your chest and his. He wasn’t much taller than you exactly, but he had a few good bit above you where you had to look up. His shoulders, though, felt larger, and you bet you’d fit right into his chest with enough of him left to curl around you. 

Just the thought sent a shiver down your spine. 

Slowly, you lifted a hand and rested it against his cheek. Instantly, he leaned into your palm. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally breathed. 

But an apology wasn’t what you were looking for. 

“I asked you a question, Andrew,” you restated. “Have you been thinking about me?” His jaw dropped before clamping back shut. The hand at his cheek traveled upwards and tangled into his grown-out curls. “C’mon; speak. Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

He swallowed loudly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck. “I’ve . . . I’ve wanted you.” 

You cocked an eyebrow. “For how long?” 

“Since Folsom. Since you said you liked hearing me speak.” 

A small part of you shattered. “That long?” 

He nodded, hair pulling slightly in your grasp. “That long. But then I left. Couldn’t find you after that.” 

“Well, now you’ve found me. What are you going to do about it, Andrew?” 

At his sides, his hands clenched like they did the first time you met him, and somehow, it clicked to you that this was his tell, his silent plea for someone to help him do what he wanted. You’d done it before; when you first offered your chair for him to sit down only for him to take the ground instead. But here he was, looking at you with expecting eyes as he waited oh so patiently for your next direction. 

Your fingers curled deeper into his roots, and the pressure drew a sigh from deep in his lungs. 

“Poor Andrew,” you cooed. “Can’t do anything unless I tell you to.” 

“Please,” he whined. 

“Okay, okay.” Your eyes met his, the hazel almost completely covered by his blown out pupils. “Down.” 

As soon as the command hit his brain, neurons firing for him to obey, obey, obey, he fell to the floor, knees crashing down in one fluid motion. His face pressed into your navel, and his hands finally planted themselves on your hips. You took two steps back until your spine molded against the wall, and Andrew shuffled forward to follow. 

“Take off my pants and underwear,” you breathed. 

His fingers gripped both hems and pulled downward until the fabric puddled at your feet. It took every ounce of self control that Andrew had left to not shove his face between your thighs and breathe you in. 

Slowly, you lifted your right leg, using the wall as support, and rested it over his shoulder. Your cunt was now in full display, less than an inch from his nose. He slightly leaned forward, but you held his head in place by his hair. 

“Did I tell you to go ahead?” you questioned with lidded eyes. 

He shook his head, looking more guilty than he had when you’d caught him with your underwear under his nose after he’d broken into your home. 

“Good boys do as they’re told, Andrew.” 

“‘M sorry,” he whimpered. 

“Do you want to be a good boy?” 

“Yes,” he answered almost before you’d even finished the question. “Yes. I wanna be . . .” His words died in his mouth, and your brows pinched. 

“Go on, baby. Tell me what you wanna be.” 

He huffed, a sound that reminded you of when Cardinal didn’t want to do as told. 

“. . . wanna be your good boy.” 

An elated expression morphed your face with raised eyebrows and a small smile. 

“Then show me what your tongue can do and lick.” 

Like a tightly coiled spring, he launched forward, face diving into your cunt all at once. His chin rubbed along your already dampened folds as his tongue began to lap mindlessly at the sensitive space between your clit and your entrance. While that felt good, you needed him higher. 

“Slow,” you managed to get out while your fingers used his curls to direct him. When the flat of his tongue ran along your clit, white, zinging pleasure shot up your spine. “There. Right—fuck—there, Andrew.” 

Under your hand, Andrew learned quickly, eagerly doing just as you told him. He kept his hands in place while he traded tonguing your throbbing bundle of nerves and licking at your fluttering hole, your taste seeping into his mouth. He hoped that it would stick, that when he fantasized about you next, he’d be able to swallow the lingering taste. 

“Fingers,” you panted once ecstasy settled warmly in your navel and your thighs began to tighten around his head. You’d played with yourself enough to know exactly what you needed, and since meeting Andrew, his thick fingers had been a craving during your lapses of self pleasure. “Use your fingers.” 

Andrew’s right hand slowly dragged downward across your hip and slightly under where his lips stayed connected to your clit as he sucked it between his teeth. Using his pointer finger, he prodded at your hole, fingertip barely breaching you before sliding right in. 

A strangled moan ripped from deep in your throat at the feeling. One of his fingers felt like two of yours, the stretch delicious and borderline painful in sweet tantalizing pressure. 

“Andrew!” you whined, head tilting back, throat bared to the ceiling. Your hips canted upwards into his face and finger, desperately searching for something more. “Move.” 

He dragged his fingertip along your walls, memorizing every soft ridge until his soaked digit cooled slightly before thrusting it back in. Your cunt clenched tightly around it. 

“Hmmmm—fuck!” you keened when he managed to reach a particularly deep part of you that had only been accessible with a toy. “Oh, shit, fucking—Andrew!” 

The sound of you calling his name had his cock straining even more against his pants. He’d never admit it, but his cock had already started swelling the moment he inhaled your heady scent from your thong. But now, hearing your whimpers and half-croaked moans that tangled his name, he needed to get some pressure off, or he was going to cum untouched. 

You’d been so distracted with his finger and tongue that you failed to notice the first jerk of his hips against your shin. But when he did it a second time and then a third, you couldn’t ignore it any longer. 

“Are you—fuck—are you humping my leg?” you asked. 

Andrew stilled against you, and you swallowed a moan. You could feel how hard he was against your skin, how large his cock was, even with being restrained by two layers of fabric. 

“I’m sor—“ He choked on a moan when your leg rose slightly and pressed into his bulge. He hunched slightly at the waist, face pulling back from your cunt, cheek resting against your thigh with eyes pinched tightly. 

It’d been so long since someone touched him, and your approval of letting him use your body for his own pleasure made the fire in his stomach build and roar. 

“Go on,” you muttered before pushing back his sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. “Hump my leg like a fucking mutt, but don’t you dare cum, Andrew.”  

He nodded mindlessly, and his hips began to rock once again in slow, dragged out motions. You left him to his pleasure for a few moments before tugging his face back into your core. 

“Get back to licking like you know how to do,” you commanded even if you were just as pathetically holding onto strings as he was. “Add another finger and make me cum all over your face.” 

You kept your leg as steady as you could manage while Andrew started licking and nibbling at your folds and stiff clit with renewed fervor. His pointer was soon joined with his middle, the delicious stretch even tighter than before. And when his hips jerked, a groan vibrated through your folds, almost sending you right over the edge. 

“An-Andrew,” you gasped, overwhelmed with his fingers and tongue working in tandem to make you cum. “C-curl—fucking, I’m—curl your fingers upwards—oh!” Your elongated moan turned into whine when his fingertips managed to brush directly at your g-spot, and stars dotted your vision. “That’s—Andreeewww—feels so—I’m gonna cum!” 

Andrew kept humping your shin in methodical thrusts, careful to heed your words and hold back the urge to cum. From below, he lifted his eyes, gaze running up your stomach to your pinched face. He wanted to see what you looked like when you came undone, to see if he obeyed correctly. His lips puckered, and he sucked your clit between them, the tip of his tongue kitten liking the bud as he curled his fingers again. His fingers massaged that small, spongy spot, and the next moment, your thighs clamped down on his ears. 

“Cumming—fuck!” you moaned, torso bending over Andrew’s head, hips jerking absentmindedly to seek out as much pleasure as possible. 

Your walls rhythmically clenched around his two fingers, and your arousal dripped down to his knuckles. A shudder wracked through your entire being when the bliss started morphing into overstimulation. 

“Okay, okay,” you whimpered. “Enough.” 

Andrew licked from your fluttering hole up to your clit once last time before pulling back to sit on his calves.  Already half-lidded, your eyes fluttered closed, and your head felt back with a soft thunk as you tried to catch your breath, mind reeling and fuzzy. Down by your knees, a slurping sound echoed in the room, and your eyes ripped open in time to see Andrew hollow his cheeks around his fingers. 

Once your chest fell into a softer rhythm, you looked down at him. “Andrew.” He paused, fingers halfway in his mouth, and looked up. “Up.” 

He pushed off the ground without a second thought and stood to his full height, but his eyes were no longer on you. The blown-out pupils were fixated on a spot just over your shoulder, and when he noticed you’d caught on, he quickly shifted them back to your face. However, your curiosity wouldn’t let you forget, and you looked toward the wall near your face, eyes widened when you realized what he’d been looking at with a yearning look: one of Cardinal’s choke chains that you used specifically for obedience training, its gold links beaming and glinting under your gaze. 

You turned back to face him. “Pants and shirt off.” 

At lightning speed, he shucked both clothing articles off before neatly folding and setting them on the edge of your bed. A certain soft type of fondness that made you want to keep him forever filled your chest. You raked over his body with a hungry look, letting your eyes linger on the outline of his abs and happy trail that dipped into the waistline of his boxers before lowering down to his thick thighs. 

“Good,” you praised, and his chest puffed out ever so slightly. “Now . . . sit on the bed.” 

He turned without thinking and walked until his knees hit the edge before slowly lowering until his ass rested on top of your duvet. As he did so, you had also turned around, but in the opposite direction to grab the choke chain from the hook. Its weight settled heavily in your palm, the loop swinging as it dangled. 

When you looked up from it toward Andrew, he was already eyeing the chain as well with interest as well as apprehension. 

You held the special collar in the air. “Do you want me to use this on you, Andrew?” 

He swallowed thickly, and his head bobbed. 

You gave him a sharp sht. “Speak.” 

“Yes,” he sighed breathily. “Please.” 

Instead of answering, you rewarded him by walking over to stand between his spread legs, your thighs brushing and resting between his. Slowly, you fed the chain through the one hoop, allowing the hooped part to loosen and spread. The small links shinked against their metal counterparts, and the sound sent a shiver down Andrew’s spine. 

As you would do with Cardinal, you lowered the open-feed loop until it swallowed his head before drooping around his neck. You let it rest against his skin, let him get used to the cool metal as it drew in his radiating body heat. 

“There,” you whispered. “You look so good in a collar, Andy.” 

His brows pinched tightly, and he locked his confused eyes onto yours. “Andy?” 

You nodded. “Every good boy needs a nickname.” Your left pointer finger hooked through the end ring and pulled lightly, making Andrew follow the lead until his face stopped right next to yours. “Do you want to fuck me?” 

“Yes,” he was quick to answer this time. “Yes, please. For a long time.” 

You leaned in and placed a chaste kiss against his lips before muttering, “Crawl up the bed and sit against the headboard.” 

The end ring slipped from your finger and landed in the divot between his pecs. Without turning away from you, Andrew used his arms to pull himself farther up the bed, biceps bulging under his weight until he got into the position you wanted him to be in. Seeing that he settled himself, you pulled your shirt off before your bra followed suit. 

Almost instantly, your nipples pebbled in the cool air, and you swore a drop of drool escaped the side of Andrew’s lips. Your knees sunk first into the mattress, and then your hands. You slowly crawled over the bed, never looking away from him even as you partly straddled his thighs. He huffed out a soft whine when your nails scraped against his stomach and caught on his boxers. 

“Let’s get these off. Lift up,” you said. 

Andrew’s hips rose off the bed, giving you enough room to pull the black fabric down. The hem dragged down inch by inch in a teasing manner until his cock was fully revealed. You paused to watch it bob upward against his lower navel, and the heavy girth of it tilted the head to the side as it swayed. Your walls clenched around nothing; your cunt ached for it to fill you to the brim. 

Your tongue ran along your bottom lip as you all but ripped his boxers off the rest of the way, flinging them behind you to join your own pile of clothes. For a split second, you wondered if he wanted you to fold them like he had with his shirt and pants, but with the way he was looking at you . . . you could tell he didn’t mind them being wrinkled on the floor. 

Hesitantly, you reached out and trailed your finger down the vein on the underside of his length, his cock jolting and spurting a bead of precum when you reached the thick base. His hands, lying next to his thighs, once again began to rhythmically clench into fists. 

You shuffled forward more into his lap, one hand gripping his cock while the other took a hold of the dangling end of the choke chain. Your movements paused so you could slide his ruddy tip through your soaked folds, drawing moans from both of you. 

A small upward tilt of his hips had you pulling back and hand tightening the chain around his neck in a warning. 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” you tutted. “Stay.” 

When he stilled under you, you slowly positioned back over his cock until the head notched at your opening once the length was thoroughly soaked with your sticky arousal. But even just the first breach felt like you were being split open, and the breath from your lungs ripped up your throat. Andrew’s head tilted back, and his eyes fell shut as his face pinched. 

In a tormenting pace, you inched yourself down onto his cock, walls clenching and relaxing at the thick intrusion. Your fingers never left the chain as you pushed your hand into Andrew’s chest for stability. And never once did he move under you. 

“You f-feel so big, Andy,” you whimpered when he was around halfway in. “Biggest cock I’ve ever ha-had.” 

A groan rumbled through his chest, and his eyes finally opened back up so he could watch your face twitch with pleasure. Your back arched during the last few inches, and a high pitched whine crawled up your throat once he was fully sheathed, his tip digging into spots you didn’t know could be reached. You swore he was up in your throat, and one glance down to the swell in your abdomen almost made you cum right then and there. 

Without moving much, you blindly reached down, fingers finding purchase in his wrist to raise his hand to span across your stretched skin.   

“You feel that, Andy?” you questioned. “That’s you. So, so, so deep inside me. Reaching all those places I can’t even get to.” Your chin dipped so you could look at him and into his glossy eyes. 

In languid rocks, you began to lift off his cock in shallow motions, his length barely pulling out before you dropped back down, cunt fully engulfing him. Your knees deeply dug into the mattress on either side of his hips, and your breasts slightly bounced as you started to quicken your up and down grinds. When your pelvises met, the coarse hairs that hid the base of his cock added needed stimulation to your clit with a tantalizing texture. 

After finding a good rhythm that danced between harsh downward sitting and slow dragging to feel his cock run across every ridge of your walls, you moaned, “Andrew. You can move. Fuck me, baby; fuck me like a good boy.” 

Large, calloused hands planted themselves on your hips, and Andrew began to meet your thrusts halfway, his grip helping aid you to slide along his length. On a particularly punchy roll, your body jolted, and your hand yanked on the chain to tighten the loop around Andrew's neck. The gold links dug into the sides of his pretty, freckled skin, and put pressure on his pulse points. 

You watched as his eyes grew hazy, mouth dropping to draw in labored breaths. After a few seconds, you loosened the chain, and some resemblance of cognitivity returned to his hazel hues. 

“You like that?” you asked, pulling your hips up only to drop them back down to pull a whimper from Andrew. “You like being choked? You look so hot under me, Andy. Letting me use you for my own pleasure.” 

“Use me,” he parroted. “Use me, please. I want to be goodhnnggg—” 

“Use you?” You yanked the chain again, cutting off his words to bring that fuzzy pleasure back to the front of his brain. “Oh, I will, but I need you to stay for me. Can you do that?” 

This time you held the chain taut for longer and started rolling your hips again. You kept the chain at a safe tightness, making sure not to pull it and completely cut off his air. But the longer you held it tightly, and the more Andrew’s eyes fluttered, you noticed how glossy they were becoming until the first tear slid down the side of his face. 

Your cunt constricted around his cock at the sight, and you dropped the chain out of a strange mix of surprise and concern as you quivered above him.

“Hey,” you softly said, hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Are you okay? Are you hurting anywhere?” 

The last thing you wanted was to accidentally hurt Andrew, and while the sight of him crying did unspeakable things to your insides, you needed to make sure he was alright before continuing. 

“Good,” he croaked once he realized that you’d stopped, eyes hooded and mouth agape as he stared up at you. “So good. Not hurt.” 

His left hand rose and covered yours and gently guided your fingers back to the loop that rested hotly between his pecs. He finagled the ring back into your hand and gave a soft tug against it.

 “Again—again, please,” he begged pathetically, timber filled with desperation. “Don’t stop.” 

“Oh, Andy,” you cooed as your hips started to rock again. “So, so good for me.” 

You slightly curled the dangling chain around your pinky before holding the rest tightly against your palm and tugged. A strangled moan fell from Andrew’s parted lips, and the sheer sound had you involuntarily clenching around his cock. Another tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, and his chest stuttered under gasping breaths. He looked so beautiful like this: crying underneath the pleasure only you could give him. When his tears started falling more freely along with the whimpers from his mouth, your hips worked harder and faster, rising and falling to stuff yourself to the brim. 

Using his chest to balance, you dipped your head to get in closer until the small puffs of his hot breath fanned against your nose. You placed a small kiss to the corner of his parted lips before your tongue darted out to lap at the streaming tears. The small tang of salt was addicting, and it only made you want to see him sob. 

“Fuck!” Andrew cried out, hips bucking upwards as you gave your hardest pull yet, the chain constricting around his throat tightly, and you hoped there’d be a pretty bruise-shaped necklace to show for it. 

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, abruptly stopping all movement. Your unoccupied hand reached out and closed around his jaw, lifting and shaking his head to coax his eyes back open and make them focus on you. 

“What did I say?” you asked, tone deep, face inches from his. 

Andrew’s mouth flopped open, and he floundered for an answer even if all words seemed to escape him. The only expression he could muster was a dumb little thing, brows furrowed, corners of his lips tugged downward in a pout. 

You feigned disappointment and shook your head. Your hand left his jaw in order to take a new hold of the choke chain and loop. “Ya’ know, Andy, good dogs follow orders.” 

“No, no—” His hands scrambled, darting between the chain, your hands, and your hips like he didn’t know where to touch or even if he could touch. “Please, please. ‘M good—swear I’m good; ‘m your good boy.” 

“Then what did I say?” You ground down into his hip as hard as you could, and you relished in the way he groaned and shivered. “What did I tell you to do?” 

“Then what did I say?” You squeezed your walls around him as hard as you possibly could, relishing in the way he groaned and shivered. “What did I tell you to do?”

“Stay!” His chest heaved. “You told me to stay!” 

“Good boy,” you murmured, other hand coming up to gently brush his fallen curls from his forehead. He went crosseyed to track your movements. “My good boy.”

“Y-your good boy,” he stuttered.

Two fingers from your right hand hooked into the ring, and two fingers from your left slid between his lips, fingertips settling in the middle of his tongue. You tugged, and his lips closed around your digits, suckling softly as you found the perfect rhythm to drive the head of his cock into the soft, sensitive spots inside you. 

Each draw back made a wet, squelching sound, your inner thighs and his base already soaked with your essence. Your walls clenched and held around his cock, desperate to keep him in and hold him inside. 

“Doing—fuck—doing so well f’r me, Andy,” you slurred. The pleasure pit in your stomach was quickly tightening, and you knew you were so close to cumming, but there was just something missing. 

Andrew hadn’t moved since you told him the second time to stay still, but that’s not what you wanted at all anymore. In one fluid motion, you tilted to the side and used the momentum to flip you both. At the feeling of turning over, Andrew’s eyes popped wide open. His cock hadn't even slipped out, length still buried inside you. Your hips continued softly rocking against him, but the new position had somehow made him reach deeper. 

“C’mon, Andy,” you moaned when he shifted forward to put his hands on both sides of your face to tower over you. “Fuck me like you mean it.” You gave the chain a yank to emphasize your wants, and Andrew was quick to comply. 

His hips drew back before kicking forward, and your legs twitched at the force. Every thrust had your spine digging and pushing up the bed and your mouth opening for wanton moans to fill his ears. At his shoulder, your nails dug into his skin and worked with the tight chain to keep him against you. 

Andrew’s hazel eyes shifted along your face, gazing at how he was going to bring you over the edge from his cock alone. When your moans began to change into high-pitched songs that broke halfway through choked gasps, he sat up slightly and placed his hands under your legs to push them up until the tops of your thighs brushed against your breasts. 

“Oh—oh! Fucking—Andrew!” you mewled, head tipping back to push into the pillow. “So fucking deep—fucking me so well! Gonna make me cum!” 

With a fire lit in his stomach, his hips pistoned against you with wet plaps, stilling momentarily to grind and let his tip rut into your soft spot. By now, your walls gripped him so tightly it was almost impossible to draw back all the way. 

“Gonna-gonna—Andyyyyyyy!” Your body tensed beneath him as your orgasm ripped through you, sending shockwaves up and down your limbs. 

Andrew kept his pace slow, wanting to draw out as much pleasure as he could for you, but his hips started to stutter intermittently, waiting for you to tell him to either pull out and stay inside, not expecting to get to finish. However, when your legs locked together at his lower back to push him as deep as possible, he grunted loudly. 

“You can cum inside, Andrew,” you panted, still experiencing the softer licks of pleasure that made you feel floaty. For one last measure, you pulled the chain taut once again. “Be good and cum.” 

Andrew stilled in your grasp, only needing your words and chain for his cock to start spurting cum along your walls. A low whimper whistled through his partly opened lips, and his eyes closed once again to focus on the way the chain dug into his neck, cutting off what he needed for the haze to grow at the edges of his mind. He rutted against you in half, unfinished thrusts, a mix of his spend and your creamy arousal coating the length of his cock. 

When he had nothing left to give, his arms slightly gave out, and his weight settled on top of you. You hummed lowly at the feeling and finally dropped the chain in order to run your hands through his curls. Every so often, you’d lift your chin to place small kisses along his cheek and jaw, whispering soft praises into his skin. 

The two of you lied there for several moments, basking in the afterglow and breathing in the scent of sex and something so entirely each other, neither of you wanting to let go at all. It wasn’t until Andrew leaned back and his cock slid out of you did you sit up slightly to look at him directly. 

“Thank you,” you softly said, one of your fingers still twirling a stray auburn curl. 

Andrew tilted his head slightly. “For what?” 

“For this, silly boy,” you laugh, the sound airy with disbelief. “You found me again.” 

He looked rather bashful after you said that before his lips formed into a frown. “Should’ve found you earlier.” 

“Maybe . . .” you trailed, “but we’re here now, and I’m not letting you disappear from my life again, Andrew Cody.” 

Finally, he fully smiled at you, crooked teeth on display. “Okay.” 

“Good,” you said, head bobbing in a nod. “Because you wouldn’t have to just deal with me. I will put Cardinal on your ass before you could even think of leaving without saying something.” 

Low lights dangling from an extravagant chandelier greet you as you arrive at PTMC's annual charity gala. Pairs of eyes burn through you as you make your way through the crowd. It'd mostly men, wearing an eager expression that begs the question— what are you ding here alone? Many of them have their own dates on their arms, and the expressions they wear are much less inviting.

Thus, you're quite eager to find the E.R. table. A wave of relief washes over you as you spot Dana, waving you over, a glass of champagne in each hand.

"I can only hope one of those is for me," you tease, though you're hopeful.

"Right on, darlin'," she croons, passing you the full glass and polishing off her own.

There's a light clatter in your glass, and you spot a small cube at the bottom of the fizzy liquid.

Furrowing your brows, Dana jumps in before you can even ask.

"Sugar cube," she explains, continuing when you still don't get it. "It's an old wives' tale, protects you from the devil, so he doesn't prey on your happiness. Got it from Moonstruck."

You smile, though your heart sinks at the thought of who she's protecting you from. Robby's supposed to be here tonight, the first time you'll see him in three months. He's not here yet, though, his burly frame a blatant absence from your department's many tables.

"You're a godsend," you redirect your focus to Dana, eyes twinkling with what you hope looks like appreciation.

"He's not here yet," Dana supplements, and your cheeks flame.

You couldn't have been that obvious, could you? Nevertheless, you lean into your main coping strategy of the last three months— repression.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I was looking for Park," you say, the defense immediate.

Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach, not only for lying, but lying by using the man that's been a rock for you these past few months.

"Huh, didn't realize he joined the E.R.," she quips, your sick tummy twisting. "Ortho's that way, babe," she nods her head to a group of tables across the ballroom.

Your eyes scan the area to find Park, already looking in your direction. Your heart skips at his intense gaze, and though you wish it was out of desire, it's just…average. A plain jolt of someone watching you. Nothing more, nothing less.

Guilt prods at you once more, a fire poker to the ashy emblems of your heart, though it's soon replaced by a buzz— the one you'd kill to gt from Park, the bartender, anyone other than the man who just walked in.

You feel his eyes the second the find you, burning a hole through the back of your head. You're not brave enough to face him, even less so when Dana mutters a pained, "Shit," under her breath.

You keep your eyes trained on Park, who's undoubtedly spotted he-who-shall-not-be-named. A slight crease to his ever-lax brow gives him away.

If you heart had sunk earlier, it's now swirling in an aggressive tide, clamoring for shore. You're finally brave enough to flit your head towards the door. Immediate regret washes through you, as he's not alone.

Your eyes adjust to the sight of Michael Robinavitch with Noelle Hastings on his arm. Your heart's an anchor now, hopeless at the bottom of the ocean.

Your mind latches on to the little details— the ones that bear the evidence of three months away. Shaggier hair, longer beard, kinder eyes.

The sight of him is a car wreck, a nasty, 40-car pile up that sends your hazards flashing. In every universe, he's a nuisance, your biggest distraction.

He makes his way over to the table, a wolfish, proud grin turning your insides. The sight of him turns you inside out, raw, vulnerable, and full of want.

The rest of the room melts away in favor of the man in front of you— the endless chatter of party-goers like a sad song underwater, muffled and melodramatic. His eyes find yours, and it's instant mesmerization.

Everything you'd pushed to the side for the last three months comes roaring back— the love, the desire, the consuming anger, the utter fury. He feels it too, you can tell. The shine of his brown eyes give you deja vu- back to the day he left, the day he let you go.

He pats Noelle's hand, the rest of the ballroom roaring back to life. Your heart pounds, leaking venom with each smack against your ribcage. Eyes darting to where they connect, your body moves before your brain can catch up.

Slamming your champagne on the table, you ignore the stares, the liquid sloshing over the lip of the glass, and walk away. So much for keeping the devil at bay, Dana.

Saddling up at the bar, you lean your forearms on the hardwood, a slight arch in your back. You don't miss the bartender's eyes, the way they drag over your frame, the deep neckline of your dress.

"One second, sweet thing," he croons, your tummy twisting.

As you wait, your eyes scan the other patrons. One so happens to be a man, one you can place to radiology, though you don't know him super well.

"Hi," he mutters, a shy smile on his face.

Your heart picks up at the sight of him, the sudden onslaught of attention a mix of sugar and spice, and absolutely nothing nice.

"Hi," you respond, giving him your name and department.

"I'm Nick Barker," he supplements, offering his hand to shake. "Radiology."

"I thought I recognized you!" You chirp, giving him your own name. "You came and helped us out when we went analog this past summer, you saved our asses."

"Ah, yes, I remember," he thinks back with fondness. "It was chaos down there, I don't know how you guys do that."

"If I had a nickel for every person who's told me that, I'd be able to give my two weeks," you quip, tapping your nails on the bar.

"Isn't that the dream," he replies, and your heart picks up at his sweet smile.

"What can I get ya, gorgeous?" The bartender asks, a sinister smile curling his lips.

"Oh!" You gasp, your gaze snapping back to the bartender.

The heat of their gazes burns through you like a laser, an animal hunted for prey. There used to be a time where you'd revel in this attention, pop your hip and bask in it like a cat would the sun.

Now, all you can think about is-

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," a voice calls from behind you.

Your eyes widen, heart nearly dropping out of your ass at the low timbre rumbling behind you. Whipping your head around, you find Robby, his forearm resting against the bar, mirroring you.

It's instant, the way you straighten your spine, dropping your arm from the wood. Cheeks aflame, palms sweaty, and heart racing, you turn back to the bartender and stumble out a pathetic, "Uhm-yeah, yeah, that."

You feel his smile, cocky and shit eating, from beside you. You refuse to look at him.

"Barker, good to see you," he croons across you, and his voice is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

"Robby, hey!" He exclaims, reaching a hand over to shake his.

You stumble back, incredulous at the clear disrespect. Digging your heels in, you inch toward Barker, desperate to give the false impression that you're there together. The Cheshire grin on Robby's face shows that you're wholly unsuccessful.

"You got a really sweet girl on your team, we were just reminiscing on the Fourth of July, felt flattered someone so pretty remembered me," he says, and your cheeks heat from the attention.

Your eyes lock with Robby's, the mere mention of the Fourth an alarm bell ringing between you two. The last day you saw him, the last day you spoke. The day he broke your heart.

All the hurt comes rushing back, a tsunamic wave of heartbreak. You lean into it— the nastiness, the pride that swells in your tummy at Robby's wide eyes, his flared nostrils.

Adding fuel to the fire, the bartender comes back, placing your drink on the bar for you.

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," he rings out, a slight wink in his right eye. "Enjoy, beautiful."

Robby clears his throat as your hand reaches for his, fingers brushing as you accept your drink.

"Thank you!" You chirp, swirling your tongue around the straw and taking an appreciative sip.

The earthy sting of tequila makes its way through your bloodstream, the throb in your heart ever so sensitive. Damn it, your drink was supposed to repress those feelings, not exacerbate them.

"Well, it was good to see you. Robby." Barker shakes his hand, and, if your eyes don't deceive you, goes slightly pink as he turns to you. "And you, as well, beautiful."

You smile at the compliment, though it sounds grating compared to the names Robby peppered over you in your most intimate moments.

Every man over the past three months has existed in this dichotomy— Robby and Not Robby. The Not Robbys fell short, every single time. This time is no different, and your heart wrings itself out like a dirty dish towel.

Baker's words elicit an ache that you could only wish was born of an aggressive fondness— the lurch in the heart coming home to a pet after a long day, the patter in your chest when you're kissed for the first time.

No, it's none of that. It's darker, more sinister. The gut punch when you're told devastating news, the sickly twist that pools in your stomach when you've told a lie, inflicted damage onto someone else. Guilt wracks you, desperate to be different, to love someone, anyone else.

Then, it's just you and Robby.

His proximity is a toxic waste, exuding between you until you feel green. The soft sniff of his nose, his same old woodsy aftershave, his thick thigh in your peripheral— it's overwhelming.

"You do look beautiful," he mutters, and your heart falls deep into your stomach at his rich timbre. "They're not wrong."

Your heart pulls, and there it is, that tingle, the pang that only seems to appear when you're around Robby. It triggers your deepest endorphins, releasing them through your whole body until you're warm and fuzzy.

"I wasn't doubting them," you quip, taking another desperate sip of your cocktail.

"Good," he replies, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. Your eyes are focused on the many party-goers, but you can tell. You always can with Robby.

Scanning the party, you lock eyes with Park, a look of concern etched in his brow. That familiar guilt returns, the collision of both men in the immediate vicinity dizzying.

"You come with him?" He asks, pointing his beer in Park's direction.

"Wha-" You whip your head towards Robby, cheeks burning at his small smile. "No, uhm- no. I didn't. I came by myself."

"That's a shame," he remarks, tipping his beer bottle to his lips.

You're stuck on his mouth, closing around the glass, the liquid traveling down his thick throat. You swallow, hard, grabbing your drink and standing.

"Though, I'm no stranger to coming by myself. Story of my life, right?" You joke, letting him choke on the fizzy drink as you walk away.

You make a beeline for Park, swaying your hips as you feel three sets of eyes follow you. A prick of confidence pokes at your belly, a childish glee replacing your sorrow with each sip. Park's got a sardonic smile as you approach, propping your hand on his forearm.

"Hey!" He coos, a soft smile on his face. "How'd that go?" He mumbles, nodding his head back to the bar.

You're feeling a little brave, whipping your head back to where Robby still stands. His eyes are dark, almost mean as he continues to clear his throat. He pumps his fist against his chest, refusing to tear his watery gaze away from you.

You smirk, just a little, before turning your gaze back to Park. He clocks your expression immediately, your soft eyes, supple mouth. It snaps you out of the haze Robby seems to always put you in, and you feel so, so idiotic.

Your mouth twists downward, a sickly feeling bubbling in your stomach as you fight the pounding of your heart. Each beat reverberates one name throughout your whole body— Robby, Robby, Robby.

Tears gloss your eyes, holding your head down to hide it from Park. There's a guilt that never seems to go away when you're with him— an ache born from crying over the same man for months, from his never-ending patience, his arm that always finds its way around your shoulders.

Like now, his soft smile finds you, even when you do everything in your power to avoid it. You can't help but smile back, ears perking to the song that the band strums up. The Way You Look Tonight.

Memories flood your mind— chest to chest with Robby, soft socks on separating your skin from the cold hardwood of his kitchen, the refrigerator light your only company. You hear his voice in your ear, the gentle way he sang each lyric to you.

You allow yourself the briefest moment to wonder if he's thinking about this, too. When you turn, though, you see him, beckoning a gleaming Noelle to the dancefloor, and you're back at square one.

"Come on," Park says, and you snap your head to find his hand extended. "Let's go. Don't wanna see you cry over him anymore. Let's have a good time tonight, yeah?"

You nod, accepting his offer. Your belly is a firepit, sparking and cracking at your indifference to the man before you. You have a lot of love for Park, but not the kind he's looking at you with now.

His eyes shine as he spins you around the floor, warm hands riding along your calloused skin. Your heart twists, lurching and desperate to love him instead. To love anyone else.

If you were a better woman, you'd have accepted his date proposal months ago. Instead, you'd given him a phony excuse, something about how you're not ready for another relationship yet.

He'd been so gracious, has been ever since. Happily biding his time with your friendship, never any pressure to push things further.

You know, though, that his patience is wearing thin, that there's only so many times a man you're not sleeping with can pick up these pieces.

This still doesn't stop your eyes from finding Robby, swaying to the beat with Noelle over Park's shoulder. Instinct pulls you closer to Park, your nails clutching his suit coat as you rest your chin on his shoulder.

He huffs out a surprised chuckle at this, his chest shaking with the action. You smile against him, giving him a light squeeze. The whole time, your eyes burn into Robby.

Your heart lurches at his tall frame, broad and soft and well lived. The smile on his face fills you with enough rage to burn down a small city. This was your song, many moons ago.

His eyes meet yours over Noelle, and the earth stops on its axis. White noise drowns in your ears, the exhilaration of him flooding your fiery veins.

It's embarrassing, how much you missed him— his gaze, his attention, his love. He doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned it.

Your heart simply refuses to accept this. Refuses to accept that he's dancing with another woman, refuses to accept that it's this song, that he'd do this to you.

This wasn't the Robby you thought you knew. You can't believe how wrong you were.

Sinking your teeth into your glossy lip, your eyes start to well with tears. His brows furrow ever so slightly, and your shoulders shake with a quiet cry.

Park goes still against you, pulling you away from him just so.

"What's going on, hm?" He mutters. "Let me get a good look at you."

You're frozen, unable to tear your eyes off him. Park sighs, and your heart sinks. It's only then you whip your head to him, tears finally spilling over your lash line.

"I'm so sorry," you shake your head, lip trembling with the pressure.

"It's okay, it's okay, I know," he mumbles, pulling you to him.

He palms at the back of your head, shushing every now and again.

"You love him," he admits, pulling you away from him once again. "You always have. I'm not an idiot," he remarks with a sad smile.

"I hate him," you breathe, and he lets out a sardonic chuckle.

"No you don't."

And with that, you're alone on the dance floor, a sort of final chapter in your relationship with Park.

You watch Park retreat to his table, a small fraction of your heart cracking as he goes. You choke on a breath, remembering the real problem at hand.

Whipping your head back to Robby, you find him talking to Noelle— kissing her on her temple and making his way to you.

Panic courses through you, eyes going wide as you act on pure instinct. Flitting your head the other way, you find a large door that leads to a balcony. Darting across the dance floor, you twist the knob and step out into the night.

The early November frost sends a chill down your spine, your heavy breath echoing in the night. Goosebumps prick your skin, your arms flying to protect yourself, soon regretting your decision.

The door behind you clicks, and your heart sinks. Your chin sits on your shoulder, feeling Robby's presence even though you refuse to look at him.

"Take a hint," you choke out, sniffing hard through your nose. "I don't want you out here."

"You should've locked the door, then, sweetheart," he muses, and you feel the sudden urge to deck him in the face.

"I didn't know there was a lock, jackass," you snap, turning to face him. "And how dare you call me sweetheart?" You poise, your finger pointed right at him.

His eyes widen, a cocky smirk stretching his lips.

"We're getting right into it, huh?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.

"You broke my heart, Michael," you insist, his eyes shining with something sad that you can't quite place. "You come back, you order my drink for me, compliment me like nothing's wrong. What do you expect me to say?"

"I don't know," he shakes his head, taking in the view behind you. "I didn't mean to break your heart, honey."

There's a nail in your heart with each pet name, bleeding poison into your belly.

"You have to stop that, Robby," you croak, wiping your damp cheek.

"Back to Robby now, huh?" He asks, and you scowl.

"How can you be so nonchalant about this?" You pose, tossing a hand out in disgust. "We were together for three months, you told me you loved me," you choke, the memory threatening to suffocate you.

"Then, you left. Never told me why, dated Noelle, then took off for three months."

Your voice is small and petulant, words tapering off into a pool of shame.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his own eyes glossy now.

Gritting your teeth, you flit your eyes away. You can't stand to look at him, to take in his tears.

"After all of this— leaving me, coming back and bringing Noelle, chasing me out onto this fucking balcony, you have the fucking nerve to cry?" You're shouting now, thankful for the thick wooden door separating you from the rest of the party.

"You're right," he croaks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Your eyes follow the action, desperate and hungry. "I'm sorry. I've been crying a lot more since I started therapy. He says it's healthy for me."

Your heart drops, getting stuck in your throat.

"Therapy?" You choke on the words, tears falling at a rapid pace.

A shiver runs down your spine at the revelation, your numb nose sore and uncomfortable. He leaps into action, slinking his jacket off and placing it around your shoulders.

You let him, resigned and sad, but too cold to deny it. He revels in this a little, you can tell by the small quirk in his lip.

"Thank you," you mutter, turning away from him and facing the open greens that greet you.

"You're welcome," he croons, and your heart aches.

You know that voice. The low timbre that rasps in the morning, praises you in the E.R., coos at you in his bed while he drives himself in and out of you.

His eyes burn a hole in the back of your head. His gaze is inevitable, it could follow you across the earth if you let it.

"It's beautiful," you mutter, too wiggly from the silence to let another moment pass.

"Yeah, it is," he's looking at you the entire time he speaks, taking a few steps closer to you.

"You're an asshole," you reply, not daring to look at him.

"So I've heard," he remarks.

"Noelle's probably missing you," you lean forward, arching your back in his line of sight.

He clears his throat, and you smile, your heart rate picking up.

"And Park won't be missing you?" He poises, and you shrug.

"We were never together," you admit, the truth bitter on your tongue.

"But he likes you," he supplements, and your heart sinks.

"Don't remind me, I feel bad enough already," you groan, letting your head fall into your hands.

"Yeah, well, I'm not much better. I took Noelle as a friend. Well, an ex. We broke up a while ago," he shrugs, and you finally look at him.

The sight of him is like a gunshot— rugged and broad and oh, so handsome. It knocks the breath clean out of you, catching in your throat on its way.

"A while ago?" You poise, and he just shrugs.

"Didn't last maybe a week into the sabbatical," he says, now parallel with you against the rung of the balcony.

"And you asked her to be your plus one to this?" you scoff, disbelief coloring your words.

He nods, and you can't help but laugh.

"God, you're the worst!" You chuckle, and he can't help but do so himself.

"Is that really bad?" He asks, pursing his lips.

"Yeah, really bad," you tease, a soft smile playing on your lips.

A foreign warmth spreads between you two, a buzz you haven't felt in months. It's soft, like a homecoming. You've felt at home with Robby for longer than you'd remember.

"Your smile is so pretty, I missed it," he murmurs, and you scoff. "I'm serious. I missed you, so much."

"You're not allowed to say shit like that to me," you snark, and he chuckles. "At least not until you tell me why you left."

He looks down, heavy breaths racking his broad shoulders. The temperature between you two drops again, plunging into ice.

"I was scared," he admits.

You roll your eyes.

"No shit."

"Ha, I deserved that," he scruffs, a sad chuckle leaving his lips. "I was, though. Scared. I know it's a shitty excuse, but you were real. I wasn't ready for it."

"But…you are now?" You supplement, daring to look at him once more,

He's so pretty, you want to throw up.

"I am. If you'll have me," he stands up straight, hands in his pockets.

You ponder his offer, the anger you've carried for months now dissipating at the idea of having him in your arms again. Frustration pricks at your stomach, a burning rage in your stomach.

"You make me feel like such an idiot," you spit, and he shrinks.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to-"

"You don't mean to?" You cut him off, eyes wild. "You break my heart, date someone else in front of my face, take off, come back with her, and I still love you. How am I supposed to feel?"

His eyes shine, and he takes a deep breath before he says, "You love me?"

"Of course I do, Robby!" You flail your arms. "What did you expect?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry," he pleas, tears spilling from his big, brown eyes. "You deserve so much better than what I put you through, and I'm an idiot."

"I won't disagree," you deadpan, though your breath is shaky. "Why did you ask Noelle? Why didn't you ask me? If you're so sorry."

"Wasn't as scary. I told you, I'm a fucking coward," he laughs, sardonic and poisonous. "You scare me. I love you, and that fucking terrifies me."

"So, what's different?" You ask, taking a step closer to him, his breath mixing with yours in the cool night air. "You come back, tell me you love me, spin me this whole story about how you're in therapy now, and- and what? I'm supposed to just- fall to my knees and take you back?"

"No, God, no, of course not," he coos, brows furrowing. "I guess- I don't know what's different," he admits with a scoff.

What he does next simply knocks the breath out of you. He sinks to his knees, his hands coming up to rest along your hips.

His touch scorches you, his sad, wide eyes shooting through you like stars.

"I don't know what's different, I can't promise that I'm fixed, or I'm better, I don't even know how much I've really changed," he starts, and you roll your eyes.

He grips your hips tighter, forcing you to look back at him.

"What I do know, is that I love you. I thought of you everyday I was gone. I'm sorry I didn't message you for your birthday, but I went and got you diamonds. They're in the car," he whispers, your heart throbbing at the gift— both the diamonds, and a grown man on his knees before you.

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow," you murmur, crashing your lips to his.

He's smoky, lips soft and smooth as they devour yours, his body slowly rising to full height again.

You positively melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, leg popping out behind you.

His big hands trail over your skin, eliciting a shiver ripping through your spine. He slides his jacket off of you, tossing it on the patio furniture littering the balcony.

Wrapping his arms around you, he keeps you warm from the chill that permeates your skin. Hands finding your ass, he lifts you against him, dress riding up in accommodation of the large man now between your legs.

His warmth between your legs sends a jolt of heat through you, punching a sweet "oh!" out of you. You squeeze your eyes, clinging to Robby tighter than before.

"Ooh, feels good being back in my arms, hm?" He asks, pressing you deeper into him.

You whine, burying your face in his neck, a quiet nod laced with shame. Your pussy pulses against his tummy, stretched taut over his white dress shirt.

He feels it, you know he can, purely from the shine in his eye, the darker hue to them. It makes you whimper, rocking your hips against his stomach.

He coos, patting the back of your head as he carries you over to the white, acrylic couch set against the railing.

He groans as he sits you both down, wiggling your hips to get comfortable. His eyes shut, he sucks in air through his teeth, and you smile.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" You ask, lacing your arms around his neck once more, rocking your hips against his.

"Hah!" He huffs out, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut as you maneuver above him. "Baby, baby, fuck, feel so fucking good on top of me, y'gotta stop."

"I missed your rambling," you slow your movements, pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple.

"I don't ramble," he grumbles, pinching your ass before giving you another sweet kiss.

You stay there for a moment, at home in his arms, tongues rolling over each other. You'd missed this— his smell, his taste, the way he took his time with you,

A wave of desperation rolls over you, all these sensations hitting at once, and you pick up your hips once more.

"Baby, stop," he orders, gripping you tight.

"Mmph!" You whine, throwing your head back, wriggling in his grasp. "I want you Mikey, please, been so long."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he grits under his teeth. "Alright, up." He motions for you to move with his hands, raising a brow when you pout, stay put on his now hard cock.

"What, you think I'm gonna put you through all this then make you ride me?" He asks, wide eyed. "I'm not a total asshole, babe. Up, c'mon. Bend over the railing."

A rush of excitement rolls through you as you finally listen, a quiet "good girl" echoing in your movements.

Flipping your hair over your shoulder, you rest your chin there, slipping your strap down, the other one following suit. You let the silky fabric fall to your feet, stepping out of it so you're left in a black bra, matching panties.

"Fuck, oh my God," he groans behind you, and you lick your lips as you approach the railing. "God I missed this, missed this fucking body so much."

You hear his breath hitch, a sardonic smile on your lips as he grips your hips with his large hands. He pulls you into him, shoving your bodies together.

Pressing a gentle hand on the small of your back, he encourages you to bend, to rest your arms on the cool metal rail.

"Good job, such a good listener when she wants to be, yeah?" He teases, moving your hair to the side, fastening his grip on the back of your neck.

"Yes, Mikey, God," you whine, wiggling your backside into his fully clothed front.

He chuckles at this, a sweet coo on his tongue.

"Sorry, honey, not super fair of me," he says, and you can hear his jacket being shed behind you. "And it's so cold, too. Left you all alone half naked for me without giving you a thing. So mean, aren't I?"

You shake your head in a playful nod, resting your cheek on your arms so you can look back at him.

He's unbuttoning the bottom of his shirt, exposing his belly, his hairy chest to the cool night air. He shivers, and you roll your eyes.

"Such a baby," you joke, and he smiles, cracking a hand down on your ass.

"Ooh!" You whine, lurching forward at the contact ever so slightly.

He grips the back of your sheer panties, bunching them up, sliding them as far between your ass cheeks as they'll allow.

"Thereee we go," he croons, and you can practically hear the sardonic smile on his lips. "Now you're remembering how to act right, hm?"

Your cheeks burn, head nodding a desperate yes.

"Good girl," he says, smacking your ass once, twice, thrice more before letting the fabric go.

The panties rest between your cheeks, the skin there still sore from his rough hand. His cold hands stroke up and down your back, calling forth a shiver all through you.

"Hands are cold," you mumble, reaching for your panties, yanking them down and sliding them over your heeled feet.

"'m sorry, baby," he rasps, fingers finding your bra clasp. "You can't complain too much when I'm getting you naked, though, no?" He teases, bending over you so his smooth voice is in your ear.

You shake your head against him, leaning back on his shoulder.

"Love you, Mikey. Do you love me?" You ask, eyes big and wide and burning a hole through him.

"Of course I do," he whispers, pulling you in for a kiss.

It's sloppy, rough and messy, not unlike your relationship with this man. He pulls back, just enough to husk against your lips,

"Love you so fuckin' much, can't believe I ever left you," he confesses, placing his big hands over your tummy, squeezing the excess skin there.

He uses the newfound pressure to sink into you, the head of his cock intruding your tight pussy.

"Fuck!" He nearly shouts, throwing his head back as his tip slots inside of you. "God, how did I go without you for three whole months? Even before that, Jesus, I'm a fuckin' idiot, love you so much."

Your nails grip the rail in front of you, knuckles aching from the pressure. A gasp rocks through you as he sinks in another inch, then another, and another.

"I love you, Mikey," you whine, arching your back as he bottoms out inside of you. "Better not leave me again," you demand, craning your neck to look back at him.

The sight that greets you is only one you've imagined in these past couple months. Robby, eyes bright and shiny, full of love, as he slams his hips into you.

"God, I dreamed of this for months, Mikey," you mewl, a fire brewing deep in your belly. "Would rub my clit and think about this, about you."

He groans, picking up his speed inside of you. The slaps his skin lets out against yours is lewd, unmistakable as he moves at full speed.

The tip of his cock nudges your special spot with each thrust, rolling your eyes back in your skull at the building pressure, going limp in his arms.

"Fuck, say more, baby, keep going," he nearly begs, cracking another spank onto your skin.

A strangled noise wrestles itself from your throat, your pussy tightening around him at his actions, his words.

"I did," you whine, squeezing your eyes shut as you take in the sensations, your impending orgasm. "Every night, thought about you and how you made me feel. Even before you left. Sometimes I'd even rub my pussy thinking about you, while Brendan was on my couch."

This confession takes you by surprise, eyes shooting open as that reality crashes down on you. At the same time, Robby snaps.

He growls, throws his head back in a strangled, "FUUCCCKK", his hips stuttering as his cock throbs inside of you.

"I'm sorry, baby," he utters, your pussy still milking his orgasm. "I'm so sorry, fuck. Oh my God, you can't say shit like that to me, gonna make me go fucking insane."

You giggle at this, squeezing extra tight around him, encouraging the last few drops from his weeping tip.

"Fuck, fuck," he presses a hand into his forehead, a disbelieving chuckle on his tongue. "Get on the fuckin' couch and spread your legs. I mean it," he demands, spreading his jacket over the patio furniture.

You clamor over on shaky knees, keeping them apart as Robby settles between them. You lift them up as he does, the spike of your heels resting against his back.

"Mmmm. God, missed this pretty cunt," he exhales, running his nose from hole to clit.

You gasp when it attaches to your bundle of nerves, even louder when he wiggles himself into you.

"Mikey! Please! I wanna cum so bad," you beg, shameless and desperate. Wiggling your hips in his face, you chase the friction that had you so close just moments ago.

"Shhh, shhh," he coos, circling his lips along your clit. "Calm down. I got you, never gonna let you go again, y'hear me?"

You nod, sinking your fingers into his hair as he makes out with your cunt, wet and sloppy and loud. It's lewd, the smacking sounds, the grunts that omit from his lips. You love it.

You tell him so, again, and again, and again.

"Love you, God," you throw your head back, the coil in your belly springing up once again, tighter than ever. "Oh! Love you so much," you whine, flinching as he adds a finger.

"Mmm," he groans against you, vibrations running through your whole body. "Cum for me, please?" He mumbles into you, big, brown eyes boring into yours. "Missed the way you taste, can you show me again?"

He laps you up, plays with your wetness as he continues to slide his long digit in and out, in and out.

He's got you right at the edge, and you allow yourself to teeter there for a brief moment before fully letting go.

Your vision turns to black as your orgasm creeps over you, the earth stuttering on its axis as the high hits you.

It's overwhelming, relentless heat surging through you, trails of fire rippling in your veins.

"Michael!" You cry, lurching forward, grinding your hips into his face.

"Yeeeessss," he drawls out, pulling you closer into him, helping you ride out even more of your orgasm. "Keep cumming, I got you, don't worry about a thing and just keep fucking cumming."

You obey, because of course you do, tiny explosions still reverberating through your body. Your body finally relents, shivering at the smallest hint of overstimulation.

"Mikey, Mikey, 'm good," you giggle, breathless. "I'm good, 's too much, God! It's too much."

He finally lets up, a wave of relief washing over you as you fall back into the couch.

Your eyes focus on the night sky, though you feel his on you. Turning your gaze downward, you think Robby is the happiest geezer you've ever seen in your life.

"Hey, beautiful," he rasps, resting his cheek against your thigh.

"Hi, handsome," you coo, reveling in the shiver that sends down his spine.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asks, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin.

"More than anything," you breathe, turning to find your panties.

"Ah!" He tuts, followed by a light smack of your thigh. "Got 'em right here," he admits, pulling them out of his pocket, and sliding them up your thigh.

"Michael Robinavitch, you are a pervert," you tease, sticky love dripping from your lips.

"Maybe, but you love me," he repeats your earlier confessions, eyes wide and shining.

"I do, love you so much," you murmur, cradling his face in your hands.

"Here's what I want to do," he starts, sitting up on his knees and beginning to redress you.

"What's that?" You poise, a cute smile on your face. He melts at the sight before continuing.

"I want to get you all nice and dressed and comfy again," he says, slipping your dress over your head, your bra going into his back pocket. "I want to take you home," he continues, pulling his own pants back on. "I want to put you in those diamond earrings I got you for your birthday," his shirt follows, shaky fingers buttoning himself back up. "And I wanna fuck you while they glow in the moonlight. You hear me?"

You nod, eyes wide and full of want.

"Good," he smiles, sliding you off the couch and onto your feet. "Go get your stuff, we have many months to make up for."

Low lights dangling from an extravagant chandelier greet you as you arrive at PTMC's annual charity gala. Pairs of eyes burn through you as you make your way through the crowd. It'd mostly men, wearing an eager expression that begs the question— what are you ding here alone? Many of them have their own dates on their arms, and the expressions they wear are much less inviting.

Thus, you're quite eager to find the E.R. table. A wave of relief washes over you as you spot Dana, waving you over, a glass of champagne in each hand.

"I can only hope one of those is for me," you tease, though you're hopeful.

"Right on, darlin'," she croons, passing you the full glass and polishing off her own.

There's a light clatter in your glass, and you spot a small cube at the bottom of the fizzy liquid.

Furrowing your brows, Dana jumps in before you can even ask.

"Sugar cube," she explains, continuing when you still don't get it. "It's an old wives' tale, protects you from the devil, so he doesn't prey on your happiness. Got it from Moonstruck."

You smile, though your heart sinks at the thought of who she's protecting you from. Robby's supposed to be here tonight, the first time you'll see him in three months. He's not here yet, though, his burly frame a blatant absence from your department's many tables.

"You're a godsend," you redirect your focus to Dana, eyes twinkling with what you hope looks like appreciation.

"He's not here yet," Dana supplements, and your cheeks flame.

You couldn't have been that obvious, could you? Nevertheless, you lean into your main coping strategy of the last three months— repression.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I was looking for Park," you say, the defense immediate.

Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach, not only for lying, but lying by using the man that's been a rock for you these past few months.

"Huh, didn't realize he joined the E.R.," she quips, your sick tummy twisting. "Ortho's that way, babe," she nods her head to a group of tables across the ballroom.

Your eyes scan the area to find Park, already looking in your direction. Your heart skips at his intense gaze, and though you wish it was out of desire, it's just…average. A plain jolt of someone watching you. Nothing more, nothing less.

Guilt prods at you once more, a fire poker to the ashy emblems of your heart, though it's soon replaced by a buzz— the one you'd kill to gt from Park, the bartender, anyone other than the man who just walked in.

You feel his eyes the second the find you, burning a hole through the back of your head. You're not brave enough to face him, even less so when Dana mutters a pained, "Shit," under her breath.

You keep your eyes trained on Park, who's undoubtedly spotted he-who-shall-not-be-named. A slight crease to his ever-lax brow gives him away.

If you heart had sunk earlier, it's now swirling in an aggressive tide, clamoring for shore. You're finally brave enough to flit your head towards the door. Immediate regret washes through you, as he's not alone.

Your eyes adjust to the sight of Michael Robinavitch with Noelle Hastings on his arm. Your heart's an anchor now, hopeless at the bottom of the ocean.

Your mind latches on to the little details— the ones that bear the evidence of three months away. Shaggier hair, longer beard, kinder eyes.

The sight of him is a car wreck, a nasty, 40-car pile up that sends your hazards flashing. In every universe, he's a nuisance, your biggest distraction.

He makes his way over to the table, a wolfish, proud grin turning your insides. The sight of him turns you inside out, raw, vulnerable, and full of want.

The rest of the room melts away in favor of the man in front of you— the endless chatter of party-goers like a sad song underwater, muffled and melodramatic. His eyes find yours, and it's instant mesmerization.

Everything you'd pushed to the side for the last three months comes roaring back— the love, the desire, the consuming anger, the utter fury. He feels it too, you can tell. The shine of his brown eyes give you deja vu- back to the day he left, the day he let you go.

He pats Noelle's hand, the rest of the ballroom roaring back to life. Your heart pounds, leaking venom with each smack against your ribcage. Eyes darting to where they connect, your body moves before your brain can catch up.

Slamming your champagne on the table, you ignore the stares, the liquid sloshing over the lip of the glass, and walk away. So much for keeping the devil at bay, Dana.

Saddling up at the bar, you lean your forearms on the hardwood, a slight arch in your back. You don't miss the bartender's eyes, the way they drag over your frame, the deep neckline of your dress.

"One second, sweet thing," he croons, your tummy twisting.

As you wait, your eyes scan the other patrons. One so happens to be a man, one you can place to radiology, though you don't know him super well.

"Hi," he mutters, a shy smile on his face.

Your heart picks up at the sight of him, the sudden onslaught of attention a mix of sugar and spice, and absolutely nothing nice.

"Hi," you respond, giving him your name and department.

"I'm Nick Barker," he supplements, offering his hand to shake. "Radiology."

"I thought I recognized you!" You chirp, giving him your own name. "You came and helped us out when we went analog this past summer, you saved our asses."

"Ah, yes, I remember," he thinks back with fondness. "It was chaos down there, I don't know how you guys do that."

"If I had a nickel for every person who's told me that, I'd be able to give my two weeks," you quip, tapping your nails on the bar.

"Isn't that the dream," he replies, and your heart picks up at his sweet smile.

"What can I get ya, gorgeous?" The bartender asks, a sinister smile curling his lips.

"Oh!" You gasp, your gaze snapping back to the bartender.

The heat of their gazes burns through you like a laser, an animal hunted for prey. There used to be a time where you'd revel in this attention, pop your hip and bask in it like a cat would the sun.

Now, all you can think about is-

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," a voice calls from behind you.

Your eyes widen, heart nearly dropping out of your ass at the low timbre rumbling behind you. Whipping your head around, you find Robby, his forearm resting against the bar, mirroring you.

It's instant, the way you straighten your spine, dropping your arm from the wood. Cheeks aflame, palms sweaty, and heart racing, you turn back to the bartender and stumble out a pathetic, "Uhm-yeah, yeah, that."

You feel his smile, cocky and shit eating, from beside you. You refuse to look at him.

"Barker, good to see you," he croons across you, and his voice is enough to bring tears to your eyes.

"Robby, hey!" He exclaims, reaching a hand over to shake his.

You stumble back, incredulous at the clear disrespect. Digging your heels in, you inch toward Barker, desperate to give the false impression that you're there together. The Cheshire grin on Robby's face shows that you're wholly unsuccessful.

"You got a really sweet girl on your team, we were just reminiscing on the Fourth of July, felt flattered someone so pretty remembered me," he says, and your cheeks heat from the attention.

Your eyes lock with Robby's, the mere mention of the Fourth an alarm bell ringing between you two. The last day you saw him, the last day you spoke. The day he broke your heart.

All the hurt comes rushing back, a tsunamic wave of heartbreak. You lean into it— the nastiness, the pride that swells in your tummy at Robby's wide eyes, his flared nostrils.

Adding fuel to the fire, the bartender comes back, placing your drink on the bar for you.

"Dirty Shirley with tequila," he rings out, a slight wink in his right eye. "Enjoy, beautiful."

Robby clears his throat as your hand reaches for his, fingers brushing as you accept your drink.

"Thank you!" You chirp, swirling your tongue around the straw and taking an appreciative sip.

The earthy sting of tequila makes its way through your bloodstream, the throb in your heart ever so sensitive. Damn it, your drink was supposed to repress those feelings, not exacerbate them.

"Well, it was good to see you. Robby." Barker shakes his hand, and, if your eyes don't deceive you, goes slightly pink as he turns to you. "And you, as well, beautiful."

You smile at the compliment, though it sounds grating compared to the names Robby peppered over you in your most intimate moments.

Every man over the past three months has existed in this dichotomy— Robby and Not Robby. The Not Robbys fell short, every single time. This time is no different, and your heart wrings itself out like a dirty dish towel.

Baker's words elicit an ache that you could only wish was born of an aggressive fondness— the lurch in the heart coming home to a pet after a long day, the patter in your chest when you're kissed for the first time.

No, it's none of that. It's darker, more sinister. The gut punch when you're told devastating news, the sickly twist that pools in your stomach when you've told a lie, inflicted damage onto someone else. Guilt wracks you, desperate to be different, to love someone, anyone else.

Then, it's just you and Robby.

His proximity is a toxic waste, exuding between you until you feel green. The soft sniff of his nose, his same old woodsy aftershave, his thick thigh in your peripheral— it's overwhelming.

"You do look beautiful," he mutters, and your heart falls deep into your stomach at his rich timbre. "They're not wrong."

Your heart pulls, and there it is, that tingle, the pang that only seems to appear when you're around Robby. It triggers your deepest endorphins, releasing them through your whole body until you're warm and fuzzy.

"I wasn't doubting them," you quip, taking another desperate sip of your cocktail.

"Good," he replies, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. Your eyes are focused on the many party-goers, but you can tell. You always can with Robby.

Scanning the party, you lock eyes with Park, a look of concern etched in his brow. That familiar guilt returns, the collision of both men in the immediate vicinity dizzying.

"You come with him?" He asks, pointing his beer in Park's direction.

"Wha-" You whip your head towards Robby, cheeks burning at his small smile. "No, uhm- no. I didn't. I came by myself."

"That's a shame," he remarks, tipping his beer bottle to his lips.

You're stuck on his mouth, closing around the glass, the liquid traveling down his thick throat. You swallow, hard, grabbing your drink and standing.

"Though, I'm no stranger to coming by myself. Story of my life, right?" You joke, letting him choke on the fizzy drink as you walk away.

You make a beeline for Park, swaying your hips as you feel three sets of eyes follow you. A prick of confidence pokes at your belly, a childish glee replacing your sorrow with each sip. Park's got a sardonic smile as you approach, propping your hand on his forearm.

"Hey!" He coos, a soft smile on his face. "How'd that go?" He mumbles, nodding his head back to the bar.

You're feeling a little brave, whipping your head back to where Robby still stands. His eyes are dark, almost mean as he continues to clear his throat. He pumps his fist against his chest, refusing to tear his watery gaze away from you.

You smirk, just a little, before turning your gaze back to Park. He clocks your expression immediately, your soft eyes, supple mouth. It snaps you out of the haze Robby seems to always put you in, and you feel so, so idiotic.

Your mouth twists downward, a sickly feeling bubbling in your stomach as you fight the pounding of your heart. Each beat reverberates one name throughout your whole body— Robby, Robby, Robby.

Tears gloss your eyes, holding your head down to hide it from Park. There's a guilt that never seems to go away when you're with him— an ache born from crying over the same man for months, from his never-ending patience, his arm that always finds its way around your shoulders.

Like now, his soft smile finds you, even when you do everything in your power to avoid it. You can't help but smile back, ears perking to the song that the band strums up. The Way You Look Tonight.

Memories flood your mind— chest to chest with Robby, soft socks on separating your skin from the cold hardwood of his kitchen, the refrigerator light your only company. You hear his voice in your ear, the gentle way he sang each lyric to you.

You allow yourself the briefest moment to wonder if he's thinking about this, too. When you turn, though, you see him, beckoning a gleaming Noelle to the dancefloor, and you're back at square one.

"Come on," Park says, and you snap your head to find his hand extended. "Let's go. Don't wanna see you cry over him anymore. Let's have a good time tonight, yeah?"

You nod, accepting his offer. Your belly is a firepit, sparking and cracking at your indifference to the man before you. You have a lot of love for Park, but not the kind he's looking at you with now.

His eyes shine as he spins you around the floor, warm hands riding along your calloused skin. Your heart twists, lurching and desperate to love him instead. To love anyone else.

If you were a better woman, you'd have accepted his date proposal months ago. Instead, you'd given him a phony excuse, something about how you're not ready for another relationship yet.

He'd been so gracious, has been ever since. Happily biding his time with your friendship, never any pressure to push things further.

You know, though, that his patience is wearing thin, that there's only so many times a man you're not sleeping with can pick up these pieces.

This still doesn't stop your eyes from finding Robby, swaying to the beat with Noelle over Park's shoulder. Instinct pulls you closer to Park, your nails clutching his suit coat as you rest your chin on his shoulder.

He huffs out a surprised chuckle at this, his chest shaking with the action. You smile against him, giving him a light squeeze. The whole time, your eyes burn into Robby.

Your heart lurches at his tall frame, broad and soft and well lived. The smile on his face fills you with enough rage to burn down a small city. This was your song, many moons ago.

His eyes meet yours over Noelle, and the earth stops on its axis. White noise drowns in your ears, the exhilaration of him flooding your fiery veins.

It's embarrassing, how much you missed him— his gaze, his attention, his love. He doesn't deserve it. He hasn't earned it.

Your heart simply refuses to accept this. Refuses to accept that he's dancing with another woman, refuses to accept that it's this song, that he'd do this to you.

This wasn't the Robby you thought you knew. You can't believe how wrong you were.

Sinking your teeth into your glossy lip, your eyes start to well with tears. His brows furrow ever so slightly, and your shoulders shake with a quiet cry.

Park goes still against you, pulling you away from him just so.

"What's going on, hm?" He mutters. "Let me get a good look at you."

You're frozen, unable to tear your eyes off him. Park sighs, and your heart sinks. It's only then you whip your head to him, tears finally spilling over your lash line.

"I'm so sorry," you shake your head, lip trembling with the pressure.

"It's okay, it's okay, I know," he mumbles, pulling you to him.

He palms at the back of your head, shushing every now and again.

"You love him," he admits, pulling you away from him once again. "You always have. I'm not an idiot," he remarks with a sad smile.

"I hate him," you breathe, and he lets out a sardonic chuckle.

"No you don't."

And with that, you're alone on the dance floor, a sort of final chapter in your relationship with Park.

You watch Park retreat to his table, a small fraction of your heart cracking as he goes. You choke on a breath, remembering the real problem at hand.

Whipping your head back to Robby, you find him talking to Noelle— kissing her on her temple and making his way to you.

Panic courses through you, eyes going wide as you act on pure instinct. Flitting your head the other way, you find a large door that leads to a balcony. Darting across the dance floor, you twist the knob and step out into the night.

The early November frost sends a chill down your spine, your heavy breath echoing in the night. Goosebumps prick your skin, your arms flying to protect yourself, soon regretting your decision.

The door behind you clicks, and your heart sinks. Your chin sits on your shoulder, feeling Robby's presence even though you refuse to look at him.

"Take a hint," you choke out, sniffing hard through your nose. "I don't want you out here."

"You should've locked the door, then, sweetheart," he muses, and you feel the sudden urge to deck him in the face.

"I didn't know there was a lock, jackass," you snap, turning to face him. "And how dare you call me sweetheart?" You poise, your finger pointed right at him.

His eyes widen, a cocky smirk stretching his lips.

"We're getting right into it, huh?" He asks, and you roll your eyes.

"You broke my heart, Michael," you insist, his eyes shining with something sad that you can't quite place. "You come back, you order my drink for me, compliment me like nothing's wrong. What do you expect me to say?"

"I don't know," he shakes his head, taking in the view behind you. "I didn't mean to break your heart, honey."

There's a nail in your heart with each pet name, bleeding poison into your belly.

"You have to stop that, Robby," you croak, wiping your damp cheek.

"Back to Robby now, huh?" He asks, and you scowl.

"How can you be so nonchalant about this?" You pose, tossing a hand out in disgust. "We were together for three months, you told me you loved me," you choke, the memory threatening to suffocate you.

"Then, you left. Never told me why, dated Noelle, then took off for three months."

Your voice is small and petulant, words tapering off into a pool of shame.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his own eyes glossy now.

Gritting your teeth, you flit your eyes away. You can't stand to look at him, to take in his tears.

"After all of this— leaving me, coming back and bringing Noelle, chasing me out onto this fucking balcony, you have the fucking nerve to cry?" You're shouting now, thankful for the thick wooden door separating you from the rest of the party.

"You're right," he croaks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. Your eyes follow the action, desperate and hungry. "I'm sorry. I've been crying a lot more since I started therapy. He says it's healthy for me."

Your heart drops, getting stuck in your throat.

"Therapy?" You choke on the words, tears falling at a rapid pace.

A shiver runs down your spine at the revelation, your numb nose sore and uncomfortable. He leaps into action, slinking his jacket off and placing it around your shoulders.

You let him, resigned and sad, but too cold to deny it. He revels in this a little, you can tell by the small quirk in his lip.

"Thank you," you mutter, turning away from him and facing the open greens that greet you.

"You're welcome," he croons, and your heart aches.

You know that voice. The low timbre that rasps in the morning, praises you in the E.R., coos at you in his bed while he drives himself in and out of you.

His eyes burn a hole in the back of your head. His gaze is inevitable, it could follow you across the earth if you let it.

"It's beautiful," you mutter, too wiggly from the silence to let another moment pass.

"Yeah, it is," he's looking at you the entire time he speaks, taking a few steps closer to you.

"You're an asshole," you reply, not daring to look at him.

"So I've heard," he remarks.

"Noelle's probably missing you," you lean forward, arching your back in his line of sight.

He clears his throat, and you smile, your heart rate picking up.

"And Park won't be missing you?" He poises, and you shrug.

"We were never together," you admit, the truth bitter on your tongue.

"But he likes you," he supplements, and your heart sinks.

"Don't remind me, I feel bad enough already," you groan, letting your head fall into your hands.

"Yeah, well, I'm not much better. I took Noelle as a friend. Well, an ex. We broke up a while ago," he shrugs, and you finally look at him.

The sight of him is like a gunshot— rugged and broad and oh, so handsome. It knocks the breath clean out of you, catching in your throat on its way.

"A while ago?" You poise, and he just shrugs.

"Didn't last maybe a week into the sabbatical," he says, now parallel with you against the rung of the balcony.

"And you asked her to be your plus one to this?" you scoff, disbelief coloring your words.

He nods, and you can't help but laugh.

"God, you're the worst!" You chuckle, and he can't help but do so himself.

"Is that really bad?" He asks, pursing his lips.

"Yeah, really bad," you tease, a soft smile playing on your lips.

A foreign warmth spreads between you two, a buzz you haven't felt in months. It's soft, like a homecoming. You've felt at home with Robby for longer than you'd remember.

"Your smile is so pretty, I missed it," he murmurs, and you scoff. "I'm serious. I missed you, so much."

"You're not allowed to say shit like that to me," you snark, and he chuckles. "At least not until you tell me why you left."

He looks down, heavy breaths racking his broad shoulders. The temperature between you two drops again, plunging into ice.

"I was scared," he admits.

You roll your eyes.

"No shit."

"Ha, I deserved that," he scruffs, a sad chuckle leaving his lips. "I was, though. Scared. I know it's a shitty excuse, but you were real. I wasn't ready for it."

"But…you are now?" You supplement, daring to look at him once more,

He's so pretty, you want to throw up.

"I am. If you'll have me," he stands up straight, hands in his pockets.

You ponder his offer, the anger you've carried for months now dissipating at the idea of having him in your arms again. Frustration pricks at your stomach, a burning rage in your stomach.

"You make me feel like such an idiot," you spit, and he shrinks.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to-"

"You don't mean to?" You cut him off, eyes wild. "You break my heart, date someone else in front of my face, take off, come back with her, and I still love you. How am I supposed to feel?"

His eyes shine, and he takes a deep breath before he says, "You love me?"

"Of course I do, Robby!" You flail your arms. "What did you expect?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so fuckin' sorry," he pleas, tears spilling from his big, brown eyes. "You deserve so much better than what I put you through, and I'm an idiot."

"I won't disagree," you deadpan, though your breath is shaky. "Why did you ask Noelle? Why didn't you ask me? If you're so sorry."

"Wasn't as scary. I told you, I'm a fucking coward," he laughs, sardonic and poisonous. "You scare me. I love you, and that fucking terrifies me."

"So, what's different?" You ask, taking a step closer to him, his breath mixing with yours in the cool night air. "You come back, tell me you love me, spin me this whole story about how you're in therapy now, and- and what? I'm supposed to just- fall to my knees and take you back?"

"No, God, no, of course not," he coos, brows furrowing. "I guess- I don't know what's different," he admits with a scoff.

What he does next simply knocks the breath out of you. He sinks to his knees, his hands coming up to rest along your hips.

His touch scorches you, his sad, wide eyes shooting through you like stars.

"I don't know what's different, I can't promise that I'm fixed, or I'm better, I don't even know how much I've really changed," he starts, and you roll your eyes.

He grips your hips tighter, forcing you to look back at him.

"What I do know, is that I love you. I thought of you everyday I was gone. I'm sorry I didn't message you for your birthday, but I went and got you diamonds. They're in the car," he whispers, your heart throbbing at the gift— both the diamonds, and a grown man on his knees before you.

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow," you murmur, crashing your lips to his.

He's smoky, lips soft and smooth as they devour yours, his body slowly rising to full height again.

You positively melt into him, arms wrapping around his neck, leg popping out behind you.

His big hands trail over your skin, eliciting a shiver ripping through your spine. He slides his jacket off of you, tossing it on the patio furniture littering the balcony.

Wrapping his arms around you, he keeps you warm from the chill that permeates your skin. Hands finding your ass, he lifts you against him, dress riding up in accommodation of the large man now between your legs.

His warmth between your legs sends a jolt of heat through you, punching a sweet "oh!" out of you. You squeeze your eyes, clinging to Robby tighter than before.

"Ooh, feels good being back in my arms, hm?" He asks, pressing you deeper into him.

You whine, burying your face in his neck, a quiet nod laced with shame. Your pussy pulses against his tummy, stretched taut over his white dress shirt.

He feels it, you know he can, purely from the shine in his eye, the darker hue to them. It makes you whimper, rocking your hips against his stomach.

He coos, patting the back of your head as he carries you over to the white, acrylic couch set against the railing.

He groans as he sits you both down, wiggling your hips to get comfortable. His eyes shut, he sucks in air through his teeth, and you smile.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" You ask, lacing your arms around his neck once more, rocking your hips against his.

"Hah!" He huffs out, head falling back and eyes squeezing shut as you maneuver above him. "Baby, baby, fuck, feel so fucking good on top of me, y'gotta stop."

"I missed your rambling," you slow your movements, pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple.

"I don't ramble," he grumbles, pinching your ass before giving you another sweet kiss.

You stay there for a moment, at home in his arms, tongues rolling over each other. You'd missed this— his smell, his taste, the way he took his time with you,

A wave of desperation rolls over you, all these sensations hitting at once, and you pick up your hips once more.

"Baby, stop," he orders, gripping you tight.

"Mmph!" You whine, throwing your head back, wriggling in his grasp. "I want you Mikey, please, been so long."

"Jesus fucking Christ," he grits under his teeth. "Alright, up." He motions for you to move with his hands, raising a brow when you pout, stay put on his now hard cock.

"What, you think I'm gonna put you through all this then make you ride me?" He asks, wide eyed. "I'm not a total asshole, babe. Up, c'mon. Bend over the railing."

A rush of excitement rolls through you as you finally listen, a quiet "good girl" echoing in your movements.

Flipping your hair over your shoulder, you rest your chin there, slipping your strap down, the other one following suit. You let the silky fabric fall to your feet, stepping out of it so you're left in a black bra, matching panties.

"Fuck, oh my God," he groans behind you, and you lick your lips as you approach the railing. "God I missed this, missed this fucking body so much."

You hear his breath hitch, a sardonic smile on your lips as he grips your hips with his large hands. He pulls you into him, shoving your bodies together.

Pressing a gentle hand on the small of your back, he encourages you to bend, to rest your arms on the cool metal rail.

"Good job, such a good listener when she wants to be, yeah?" He teases, moving your hair to the side, fastening his grip on the back of your neck.

"Yes, Mikey, God," you whine, wiggling your backside into his fully clothed front.

He chuckles at this, a sweet coo on his tongue.

"Sorry, honey, not super fair of me," he says, and you can hear his jacket being shed behind you. "And it's so cold, too. Left you all alone half naked for me without giving you a thing. So mean, aren't I?"

You shake your head in a playful nod, resting your cheek on your arms so you can look back at him.

He's unbuttoning the bottom of his shirt, exposing his belly, his hairy chest to the cool night air. He shivers, and you roll your eyes.

"Such a baby," you joke, and he smiles, cracking a hand down on your ass.

"Ooh!" You whine, lurching forward at the contact ever so slightly.

He grips the back of your sheer panties, bunching them up, sliding them as far between your ass cheeks as they'll allow.

"Thereee we go," he croons, and you can practically hear the sardonic smile on his lips. "Now you're remembering how to act right, hm?"

Your cheeks burn, head nodding a desperate yes.

"Good girl," he says, smacking your ass once, twice, thrice more before letting the fabric go.

The panties rest between your cheeks, the skin there still sore from his rough hand. His cold hands stroke up and down your back, calling forth a shiver all through you.

"Hands are cold," you mumble, reaching for your panties, yanking them down and sliding them over your heeled feet.

"'m sorry, baby," he rasps, fingers finding your bra clasp. "You can't complain too much when I'm getting you naked, though, no?" He teases, bending over you so his smooth voice is in your ear.

You shake your head against him, leaning back on his shoulder.

"Love you, Mikey. Do you love me?" You ask, eyes big and wide and burning a hole through him.

"Of course I do," he whispers, pulling you in for a kiss.

It's sloppy, rough and messy, not unlike your relationship with this man. He pulls back, just enough to husk against your lips,

"Love you so fuckin' much, can't believe I ever left you," he confesses, placing his big hands over your tummy, squeezing the excess skin there.

He uses the newfound pressure to sink into you, the head of his cock intruding your tight pussy.

"Fuck!" He nearly shouts, throwing his head back as his tip slots inside of you. "God, how did I go without you for three whole months? Even before that, Jesus, I'm a fuckin' idiot, love you so much."

Your nails grip the rail in front of you, knuckles aching from the pressure. A gasp rocks through you as he sinks in another inch, then another, and another.

"I love you, Mikey," you whine, arching your back as he bottoms out inside of you. "Better not leave me again," you demand, craning your neck to look back at him.

The sight that greets you is only one you've imagined in these past couple months. Robby, eyes bright and shiny, full of love, as he slams his hips into you.

"God, I dreamed of this for months, Mikey," you mewl, a fire brewing deep in your belly. "Would rub my clit and think about this, about you."

He groans, picking up his speed inside of you. The slaps his skin lets out against yours is lewd, unmistakable as he moves at full speed.

The tip of his cock nudges your special spot with each thrust, rolling your eyes back in your skull at the building pressure, going limp in his arms.

"Fuck, say more, baby, keep going," he nearly begs, cracking another spank onto your skin.

A strangled noise wrestles itself from your throat, your pussy tightening around him at his actions, his words.

"I did," you whine, squeezing your eyes shut as you take in the sensations, your impending orgasm. "Every night, thought about you and how you made me feel. Even before you left. Sometimes I'd even rub my pussy thinking about you, while Brendan was on my couch."

This confession takes you by surprise, eyes shooting open as that reality crashes down on you. At the same time, Robby snaps.

He growls, throws his head back in a strangled, "FUUCCCKK", his hips stuttering as his cock throbs inside of you.

"I'm sorry, baby," he utters, your pussy still milking his orgasm. "I'm so sorry, fuck. Oh my God, you can't say shit like that to me, gonna make me go fucking insane."

You giggle at this, squeezing extra tight around him, encouraging the last few drops from his weeping tip.

"Fuck, fuck," he presses a hand into his forehead, a disbelieving chuckle on his tongue. "Get on the fuckin' couch and spread your legs. I mean it," he demands, spreading his jacket over the patio furniture.

You clamor over on shaky knees, keeping them apart as Robby settles between them. You lift them up as he does, the spike of your heels resting against his back.

"Mmmm. God, missed this pretty cunt," he exhales, running his nose from hole to clit.

You gasp when it attaches to your bundle of nerves, even louder when he wiggles himself into you.

"Mikey! Please! I wanna cum so bad," you beg, shameless and desperate. Wiggling your hips in his face, you chase the friction that had you so close just moments ago.

"Shhh, shhh," he coos, circling his lips along your clit. "Calm down. I got you, never gonna let you go again, y'hear me?"

You nod, sinking your fingers into his hair as he makes out with your cunt, wet and sloppy and loud. It's lewd, the smacking sounds, the grunts that omit from his lips. You love it.

You tell him so, again, and again, and again.

"Love you, God," you throw your head back, the coil in your belly springing up once again, tighter than ever. "Oh! Love you so much," you whine, flinching as he adds a finger.

"Mmm," he groans against you, vibrations running through your whole body. "Cum for me, please?" He mumbles into you, big, brown eyes boring into yours. "Missed the way you taste, can you show me again?"

He laps you up, plays with your wetness as he continues to slide his long digit in and out, in and out.

He's got you right at the edge, and you allow yourself to teeter there for a brief moment before fully letting go.

Your vision turns to black as your orgasm creeps over you, the earth stuttering on its axis as the high hits you.

It's overwhelming, relentless heat surging through you, trails of fire rippling in your veins.

"Michael!" You cry, lurching forward, grinding your hips into his face.

"Yeeeessss," he drawls out, pulling you closer into him, helping you ride out even more of your orgasm. "Keep cumming, I got you, don't worry about a thing and just keep fucking cumming."

You obey, because of course you do, tiny explosions still reverberating through your body. Your body finally relents, shivering at the smallest hint of overstimulation.

"Mikey, Mikey, 'm good," you giggle, breathless. "I'm good, 's too much, God! It's too much."

He finally lets up, a wave of relief washing over you as you fall back into the couch.

Your eyes focus on the night sky, though you feel his on you. Turning your gaze downward, you think Robby is the happiest geezer you've ever seen in your life.

"Hey, beautiful," he rasps, resting his cheek against your thigh.

"Hi, handsome," you coo, reveling in the shiver that sends down his spine.

"Wanna get out of here?" He asks, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin.

"More than anything," you breathe, turning to find your panties.

"Ah!" He tuts, followed by a light smack of your thigh. "Got 'em right here," he admits, pulling them out of his pocket, and sliding them up your thigh.

"Michael Robinavitch, you are a pervert," you tease, sticky love dripping from your lips.

"Maybe, but you love me," he repeats your earlier confessions, eyes wide and shining.

"I do, love you so much," you murmur, cradling his face in your hands.

"Here's what I want to do," he starts, sitting up on his knees and beginning to redress you.

"What's that?" You poise, a cute smile on your face. He melts at the sight before continuing.

"I want to get you all nice and dressed and comfy again," he says, slipping your dress over your head, your bra going into his back pocket. "I want to take you home," he continues, pulling his own pants back on. "I want to put you in those diamond earrings I got you for your birthday," his shirt follows, shaky fingers buttoning himself back up. "And I wanna fuck you while they glow in the moonlight. You hear me?"

You nod, eyes wide and full of want.

"Good," he smiles, sliding you off the couch and onto your feet. "Go get your stuff, we have many months to make up for."

it was 10 minutes since you had pulled up, a sigh leaving your lips at his usual lateness. you had plans with your friends that evening, planning to go out to the bars and drink till you couldn't stand. the dress you wore was one you had bought after your divorce, deciding to do something for yourself for once instead of trying to please sammy all the time. you had started working out more, dressing a little more revealing, and going out more when you didn't have your son. your top priority was always him though, making sure he was happy whenever he was at your house. "you excited to stay with daddy this weekend?" you spoke, turning back in your seat to your son who was 4 now. all he did was nod, the toys in his hands keeping him distracted.

you were snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of a door closing, sammy making his way outside with a smirk on his face at the sight of you. he had changed quite a bit too since your divorce. he was fitter than ever, having lost a lot of his weight, cockier than ever, and loved to push your buttons ten times more. you only glanced at him before you were climbing out of the car, going to the backseat to unbuckle your son. what you didn't see was his smirk drop and eyebrows furrow together at your outfit. "daddy!" your son called as he ran to sammy, hugging onto his legs tightly. sammy was quick to lift your son up, pressing a kiss to his head. "hi buddy, you have a good time with mommy?" he hummed to the boy, smiling to his son before his attention was turned to you, watching you bend over in the backseat to grab his bag of clothes.

you leaned forward to press a soft kiss to your son's cheek, shoving the bag into sammy's free arm. his cologne was strong, the same one he wore when you were married. the same one you were so addicted to. "say bye to mommy and head inside, i have to talk to her," sammy spoke, your son reaching to hug you tight before he was wriggling out of his father's arms and running to the door of the police station. you were already turning around to get back into the driver's seat, sammy's hand slamming against the door to keep you from opening it. "got plans or something?" he mumbled, an irritated sigh as leaving your lips as you turned to face him.

his eyes looked you up and down slowly, his teeth clenching at the sight of your cleavage popping out. "yes. now let me go, sammy," you mumbled, trying to push his arm from the door but he was quick to grab your wrist. "where you going? especially wearing this?" he mumbled, his fingertip moving to run against the top of the dress where it rested on your tits. you couldn't help but swallow hard, goosebumps popping up all over your body that had him smirking. "out with my friends. now if you'll excuse me i am going to be late because someone can never seem to be on time," you murmured, trying to free your wrist from his tight grip.

that only made him hold tighter, pulling you close so your bodies were pressed together. "don't be like that, baby," he hummed, hands moving to rest on your hips as he looked down at you. "could skip your plans and come over for dinner? lil family night," he suggested as he leaned down to your ear, pressing a small kiss to it. you hated the effect he still managed to have on you after all this time. curse him and his smooth talking and his sexy face. "not happening, it's amanda's birthday," you mumbled, hands moving to his police vest to try to push him back but he didn't budge, his hands only squeezing at your hips. "just come over after then. he'll be asleep. just wanna see what you have on under this," he continued to press soft kisses to your ear, knowing it was your weak spot.

you couldn't stop your thighs from clenching together, the sight of it making the evil smile on his face grow. "you're a pig," you mumbled, shoving him back before climbing into the driver's seat. he was quick to move between the door, not allowing you to shut it. he leaned across you to buckle your seat belt for you, pressing a small kiss to your cleavage. "you have my number, sweetheart. call me when you're all done tonight," he spoke, shooting a quick wink at you before he was shutting the door behind him.

Night has settled over the street outside, the narrow buildings opposite your parlour window reduced to dark silhouettes against a dim sky. The only light comes from a cluster of candles on the table before you, their warm glow catching the tip your needle as you ease silk thread through fine linen, your careful stitches forming the initials of a bride-to-be. The shop beneath your residence closed hours ago – the final slam of the door downstairs had told you the owners were on their way home.

A sudden thud on the landing pulls you from your work. Heavy, uneven footfalls shuffle toward your door, and a clumsy fumbling at the latch startles you upright. Heart leaping, you snatch up the nearest object – a cooking pot – and brace yourself as the door swings open. A figure lurches inside and lifts his head.

 “Tom!” You exclaim, lowering the pot at once. “What are you doing here?”

Your brother has worked in the Red Keep for nearly a year now, serving as attendant to Prince Baelor, heir apparent to the Iron Throne. Tom has lodging within the Keep itself, so he rarely visits except for brief calls – and never at this hour.

You pick up one of the candles and cross the room to him. In the flickering golden light, the flame reveals dark bruises blooming across his cheeks, a small cut on his brow, and the faint sheen of dried blood tracing the edge of his split lip.

“What’s happened to you?” You ask with alarm.

“I got into a fight.” He shuffles toward the table and sinks into the chair opposite the one you’d just left.

“You were attacked?”

He grimaces. “Not exactly. Lads at the tavern were saying things. About me. About his grace.”

“So you fought them?” You exhale sharply. “They’re just words, Tom. You can’t let yourself be baited like that.”

“They put my honour into question – and his grace’s. I couldn’t let that stand.”

You sigh. “How badly hurt are you?”

“I… think my arm’s broken.”

“Tom! What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been an idiot. I see that now.” He shakes his head, wincing. “I can’t serve his grace like this, and broken bones take weeks to heal. I’ll be replaced for certain.”

He finally meets your gaze, the guilt in his eyes unmistakable.

You and Tom both work, but his wages from serving the Prince are what keep your rent paid. Without them, you’d never afford your small rooms in Cobbler’s Square. You’d be pushed into Flea Bottom – a maze of alleys rank with refuse, where drunkards and degenerates stagger through the night, and thieves and rapers lurk in every shadow. The very thought turns your stomach.

“How could you act so recklessly?” You say, panic sharpening into anger. “When people try to rile you, you ignore them. They do it because they want a reaction.”

“If you’d heard the things they were saying, you’d understand.” He protests.

“Well, what were they saying?”

He hesitates, shifting in the chair, eyes dropping to the floorboards. “I don’t care to repeat it to you, sister.”

“Why let it trouble you so much anyway? Whatever they said about the royals – they wouldn’t lift a finger to defend the likes of us.”

“Prince Baelor would,” Tom says quietly.

You arch a brow. “Is he truly as good as all that?”

“Yes, he is.” Pride steels his voice. “I could never hope for a better master. Not saying he’d go brawling – that’s not his way – but I swear he would defend me.”

You sink back into your chair and release a long breath. “Seven help us… what are we going to do now?”

The night drags on with a tense, uneasy quiet, both you and your brother anxious about how precarious your situation truly is, how swiftly everything could come undone.

You retreat to your room to ready yourself for bed, though you doubt sleep will claim you. You take down your hair and pick up a small bronze hand mirror that belonged to your mother, using a wooden comb with your other hand to smooth your hair. You stare at your reflection for a time, at your neat clothes – not expensive, but respectable, neat, and clean, then linger on your face looking back. Ever since you and Tom were children, people had remarked on how alike you looked, how there was never any doubt that you were brother and sister.

That’s it.

“I will take your place.” You say as you step back into the parlour.

Tom looks up from the table, startled. “What? You can’t – you’re a woman. As his attendant I help him dress, fetch his wash water. It wouldn’t be proper for a woman to do any of that.”

“What if he didn’t know I’m a woman?”

He stares at you. “What are you talking about?”

“People have always said we look so alike. I could pretend to be you – step in until your arm heals.”

“That’s madness.” His voice cracks between disbelief and fear. “Do you understand how much trouble we’d be in if anyone found out? Are you truly considering this?”

“I am.” You draw a shaky breath, the weight of the decision pressing against your ribs. “We can’t lose our home.”

You take some spare linen and cut it into strips, sewing them together to make a long length, like a bandage, and practice binding your chest. You try on your brother’s clothes. They fit, apart from the shoes, so you stuff rags into the ends to fill them out where your own feet cannot.

You are thankful that your brother does not keep his hair in a cropped style as some men do, but rather keeps it long, the length a little past his shoulders. Nevertheless, shears in hand, you prop up your mirror to check your reflection as you cut your hair, locks of at least ten inches falling in heaps around your feet.

Tom spends hours going over his duties in painstaking detail – what is expected of him, how Prince Baelor likes things done, and how to navigate your way around the Red Keep.

He tests you regularly to make sure you remember, and writes things down on a piece of paper for you to keep hidden in your pocket, to check discreetly if you need assistance in recalling a detail.

~

The walk to the Red Keep feels longer than it should. Unease prickles beneath your skin, every passing glance convincing you that someone has seen through the disguise. You do your best to imitate Tom’s easy, masculine stride, but your movements feel stiff, practiced and unnatural.

Halfway up Aegon’s High Hill, you dip into the shadow of an alcove and pull the folded paper from your pocket, checking Tom’s directions for how to enter the castle through the servants’ entrance, and how to reach Prince Baelor’s chambers from there. You murmur the routes to yourself, tracing the imagined corridors in your mind, before tucking the paper away again. Sweat beads along your brow, the steep climb and the hot morning sun doing little to calm your nerves.

You find the entrance and step inside. The halls are bustling with other servants, weaving past one another with practiced efficiency. A few acknowledge you with brief nods, and you return them with what you hope is Tom’s familiar manner.

You spent nearly an hour the previous night practicing a lower voice, feeling ridiculous the whole time – but your natural voice is higher than Tom’s, and this is one detail you cannot afford to get wrong.

Following his instructions, you fetch a basin, a cloth, and a pitcher of hot water. The warmth seeps into your palms as you carry them, grounding you just enough to steady your breath. Then you climb the stairs from the servants’ hall toward the Tower of the Hand, where Prince Baelor keeps his chambers. Tom had prepared the Prince’s clothing for the morning before leaving the Keep, so at least you are spared that task for now.

You follow your brother’s directions, every step taking you deeper into the risk you chose, and toward the prince you must fool.

Eventually you reach the Tower of the Hand, where a lone guard stands outside the door – though he looks different from the others you passed on the way. His armour is plain, his black tabard bordered in deep red. He is unusually tall, broad-shouldered, his sand-coloured hair resting at his shoulders. He spots you approaching and offers a friendly nod.

“Tom,” he says in greeting.

You think on everything Tom told you about his time serving Prince Baelor. You remember his stories of the tourney at Ashford Meadow, of the hedge knight the prince fought beside, the one he took into his service. What was his name? You’re almost certain it was –

“Ser Duncan,” you say, returning the greeting.

You could swear your heart stills for a moment, waiting for a flicker of confusion, a raised brow, any sign you’ve misspoken. None comes.

Your heart thumps, thudding against your ribs as you draw a steadying breath, brace yourself, and push open the door.

You cross a small antechamber which opens into spacious dining room. A long table stands at its centre, flanked by high-backed chairs, the pale blue light of early morning glinting across polished wood.

Beyond it lies the solar, a handsome chamber equipped with a dark wooden desk and tall bookcases lining the walls. To the right stands a door: Prince Baelor’s bedchamber.

Every instinct in your body screams that this is madness, that you should turn back while you still can. But you force your hand forward and knock softly, three measured taps.

“Come in.” A voice calls from within.

You lift the latch and push the door open, stepping inside.

You have never laid eyes on Prince Baelor before now – only heard him spoken of, mostly by Tom.

The prince looks to be about forty. His hair is cropped, and his beard short. Both are dark, threaded with silver. You recall Tom telling you he lacks the pale Valyrian colouring of his kin and instead takes after his Dornish mother.

He emerges from beside the bed, dressed only in a long linen shirt. You cross to the washstand, set down the basin, and fill it with the steaming water from the pitcher. You drape the cloth over the edge and place the folded towel neatly beside it before stepping back, hands clasped behind you in an imitation of Tom’s posture.

The prince glances your way briefly, before turning his attention to the basin. He lifts his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and you catch the barest glimpse of his buttocks before jerking your gaze away, cheeks burning. How strange your brother’s role is, to see a member of the royal family so intimately.

While the prince washes, you move to the large trunk at the foot of the bed and lift the lid. Inside are the garments Tom described in careful detail: a clean linen shirt, stockings, breeches, doublet, surcoat, sash, belts, and polished boots. You gather them in order, reminding yourself of each step as Tom drilled it into you.

You risk a quick glance toward the prince, who is drying himself with the towel. You drape the fresh shirt over your arm and approach him, keeping your eyes respectfully lowered. He takes the garment without comment and pulls it on, then steps to the end of the bed, quietly waiting for you to continue.

A strange, unreal feeling settles over you as you set to the task. Standing so close to the heir to the Iron Throne, fastening his clothing with your own hands – it’s almost dizzying. You cannot fathom how Tom carries out these duties each morning with such ease.

You finish by tying the sash at his waist, then circling a black leather belt around him and fastening the buckle at the front. When it sits properly, you step back, checking your work.

 “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He says.

His voice is softer and smoother than you expected from a prince. You thought it would carry more command – perhaps even a trace of gruff authority. Instead, it is warm, almost gentle.

 “Am I, your grace?” You use the lower voice you practiced, and your pulse leaps, dreading that he’ll hear the difference.

He taps two fingers against his chest.

“My pin,” He says, inclining his toward a small table beside the bed, where an ornate box rests.

You cross the room and open it. Nestled in plush black velvet, lies the Hand of the King’s pin. You lift it carefully, returning to stand before him.

“My apologies, your grace,” you murmur as you fasten it to his breast.

“No harm done,” He replies. Then, with a thoughtful look: “You look pensive today, Tom. Is everything alright?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Your sister is well, I trust?”

You stiffen slightly, caught off guard. Tom must speak of you more often than you realised. “Yes, she is well,” you say. “I saw her last night.”

“Good.” A small smile warms his face. “One mustn’t neglect his family.

He pauses before the long mirror of polished silver beside the washstand, running a hand over his hair to smooth it.

“Thank you, Tom,” he says, then steps out of the bedchamber.

Once he is gone, you set about making the bed, plumping the pillows, and gathering the prince’s nightshirt along with the used wash water, cloth, and towel, as Tom instructed. You carry them out into the solar and then through the dining room, where Baelor now sits while another servant sets out his breakfast.

The servant glances up through dark brows as you pass, something unreadable flickering in his pale eyes. You offer a small nod and continue through the room, exiting the Hand’s chambers.

After dropping the clothing at the laundry room, you head back upstairs, discreetly unfolding your notes to remind yourself where to find the steward’s office to collect Baelor’s letters. You whisper the turns and corridors under your breath, refold the paper, and shove it back into your pocket, just as the servant from the dining room descends the stairs, a tray and pitcher balanced in his hands. He slows, then stops directly in front of you.

“I’d heard you were in no fit state to come to work today,” he says.

Your heart skips a beat. “Clearly you heard wrong.”

His lip curls – barely, but enough to chill you – before he continues down the stairs. You resume your ascent, glancing back once, but he’s already out of sight. Does he know about Tom’s fight?

You push the thought aside and return to the Tower of the Hand after collecting the letters. In the small courtyard attached to the chambers, you spot the prince with his back turned, sunlight catching on the silver threaded through his hair.

Quietly, you slip into the solar and place the stack of letters in the centre of the desk. Then you cross to the windows and pull the curtains fully open, tying them back until the room is flooded with warm light. You move into the dining room to do the same with the remaining curtains just as the prince steps inside.

“I put the letters on your desk, your grace,” you say.

“Thank you, Tom,” he replies, taking his seat behind the desk. The chair scrapes softly as he pulls it closer and breaks the seal of the first letter.

That makes twice he has thanked you today. You never expected such courtesy from anyone in the Red Keep – certainly not from the heir to the Iron Throne. Servants are usually invisible, their work accepted without acknowledgment. You’re beginning to understand, now, why Tom speaks of him with such respect.

The chamber door opens, and the dark-haired servant from earlier steps inside, carrying a pitcher and goblet. He glances at you briefly before crossing to the solar, setting the goblet on the prince’s desk and filling it with wine.

“Thank you, Rask,” Baelor says, lifting the goblet for a sip.

You steal occasional glances as he reads through his letters, quill scratching now and then as he pens replies, while Rask stands nearby, ready to refill the goblet when it empties.

“Tom,” Baelor calls after about a quarter of an hour.

You approach his desk.

“Please take this to the Grand Maester,” he says, folding a freshly written letter and holding it out.

You reach forward, and your sleeve catches the quill, tipping the inkwell. Black ink spreads rapidly across the desk. Your hands shoot forward, righting the inkwell and stopping the spill before it can reach the pile of letters.

“I – I beg your pardon for being so clumsy, your grace,” you stammer, bracing for a scolding as you fish a handkerchief from your pocket to mop up the mess.

“I would be lying if I said I have never done the same,” he says evenly. “Accidents happen, Tom. Do not fret.”

Shock freezes you for a moment. His steady gaze meets yours – there is no hint of anger or impatience there.

“Thank you, your grace,” you say, straightening. The mess cleaned, you return the soiled handkerchief to your pocket and reach for the letter again. “I’ll deliver this to the Grand Maester at once.”

Baelor passes the folded letter, and as you turn to leave, your eyes meet Rask’s. The servant narrows his pale eyes, lingering just long enough to make you wonder what he suspects.

Making sure you are out of view of any guards, servants or castle residents, you take out your notes again to check the location of the rookery.

Your calves ache by the time you make it there, and deliver the message to the Grand Maester. Needing no reply, you head back down the countless stairs and return to Prince Baelor’s chambers, where he says you may go to the servants’ hall for something to eat.

That night, you return to his chambers with a basin of warm water, a cloth, a towel, and a fresh nightshirt.

He is seated at his desk in the solar when you enter, fingers stroking through his beard as he studies a letter. You move quietly across the room and enter his bedchamber, setting the basin, cloth, and towel on the washstand and laying the nightshirt neatly on the bed.

A chair scrapes back, and footsteps follow. Baelor enters the room. You help him out of his surcoat and doublet, his movements calm and practiced. He steps out of his breeches and hands them to you, then moves to the washstand to cleanse his face. You avert your gaze as he lifts his shirt over his head, swapping the worn garment for the fresh linen.

Once he is properly dressed, you fold his clothing carefully. The outer garments go back into the chest at the foot of his bed, while the worn shirt is draped over your arm, ready to be taken for laundering.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, your grace?” you ask.

“That will be all, Tom,” he says, stepping beside the bed and pulling back the blanket. “Please snuff the candles as you leave.”

“Yes, your grace.”

You slip out of the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind you. One by one, you extinguish the candles in the solar, then move through the dining area, snuffing each flame until the room is swallowed by darkness.

At last, you carry Baelor’s shirt to the laundry room, then make your way out of the Keep and down the hill. Your feet ache from standing all day, calves burning from the steep descent, and yet a small, quiet pride warms you despite the exhaustion.

By the time you reach Cobbler’s Square, you’re exhausted.

Tom perks up the moment you step inside. “How’d it go?” His eyes are wide, eager.

“I managed to get through the day,” you say, collapsing into a nearby chair with a long sigh. “Though not without a mishap.”

“What happened?”

“I spilled Prince Baelor’s ink on his desk while he was sitting there. But… he wasn’t angry.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Tom says with a shrug. “He isn’t like other princes or lords.”

“There was another servant of his there,” you continue. “I think he must have been his cupbearer. He kept giving me sour looks.”

“That’d be Rask. He’s never liked me.”

“He seemed surprised to see me – or should I say, you. He even said he’d heard you were in no fit state to work.”

Tom sits up straighter, jaw tightening. “Did he now?” His scowl deepens.

“Was he there at the fight?” you ask cautiously.

“I didn’t see him.”

“Well, let’s hope he just heard about it second-hand. Otherwise…” You trail off, the weight of what could happen pressing down on you.

~

You return to the Keep the next morning with a satchel slung over your shoulder. Since you managed to get through your first day without being discovered, you know you must begin staying in Tom’s room in the servants’ quarters. Not only is it expected – keeping you close at hand should the prince need you – but it will spare you the long trek between Cobbler’s Square and the Red Keep each morning and night.

“Another night spent away from the castle?” Rask’s voice cuts through the corridor as he spots you, his gaze lingering on the satchel.

“I was visiting my sister,” you reply evenly.

“Two nights in a row?” His brows rise, tone edged with suspicion.

“What’s it to you?”

Rask hums under his breath, his pale eyes travelling slowly up and down your frame before he turns and continues along the corridor.

After helping Baelor dress, you retrieve his letters. Once he finishes reviewing his correspondence, you gather the ones he sets aside along with his ink and quill, and accompany him to the small council chamber, Ser Duncan following close behind.

As the Hand, Baelor is the first to arrive. You set out the letters and writing implements at his place at the far end of the long table.

Other councillors begin to trickle in soon after, and Baelor dismisses you to wait outside. Moments later, Rask arrives carrying two pitchers of wine to serve during the session. He shoots you a sour look before disappearing into the chamber, the heavy doors closing behind him.

From the corridor, you hear mostly muffled voices—some raised, but never Baelor’s. His tone is always distinct in its calm, and you strain to hear it amid the rumble of discussion.

After roughly an hour, the doors open and the council members file out, heading in both directions along the corridor. Baelor calls for you from within, and you step inside to help him gather the letters and the additional papers he indicates. Rask clears the goblets from the table, silent and stiff, before the three of you step out into the corridor.

“Bring only water for me, please, Rask,” Baelor says. The servant bows and heads the opposite way down the hall.

The prince’s brow is drawn, his jaw set more tightly than usual. You lengthen your stride to keep pace as you return with him to the Tower of the Hand. Once inside, you place the letters and papers neatly on his desk, straightening the edges into a tidy stack.

Baelor drops into his chair with a weary sigh. Leaning back, he folds and unfolds his hands in his lap, a troubled look clouding his usually steady features.

“Can I do anything for you, your grace?” you ask cautiously, uncertain how he might respond in such a disposition.

“Not unless you can talk some sense into Lord Penrose,” he mutters.

“Your grace?” You hesitate, unsure how to reply.

Baelor turns his gaze to you, the tension in his face easing just slightly. “Forgive my mood, Tom. It is only that the Master of Coin has insisted – yet again – that we cut funds for the poor. He has pressed the matter at the last three meetings, despite my making it clear I will not do it.”

“That must be frustrating, your grace.”

It comes out quietly, but the sentiment is sincere. A swell of respect rises within you at his words. The smallfolk – especially the poorest – are often ignored, a burden many in power would rather pretend they do not see. To hear him defend them so firmly means a great deal.

~

On your fourth day serving Prince Baelor, you help him prepare for training, exchanging his usual doublet for a padded gambeson and his soft leather boots for a sturdier pair.

“My squire will handle the rest. Thank you, Tom,” Baelor says before leaving his chambers for the training yard.

Later, when you help him out of the gambeson, you notice a line of stitching has come loose. “The stitching has come undone here, your grace,” you point out gently. “I could mend it, if you’d like.”

“That would be appreciated, Tom,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow before crossing to the washstand where you prepared a basin moments before. He removes his breeches and shirt, handing you the sweat-dampened garments. His breath is still uneven from training—no doubt worsened by the numerous flights of stairs up to the Tower of the Hand.

Once he washes, you help him back into his regular attire.

When he steps out into the solar, you gather the used training clothes in your arms and carry them downstairs to the laundry – keeping the gambeson with you. In your small chamber, you take out the sewing kit you brought from home, selecting a length of black thread. Settling onto the edge of your bed, you begin to stitch down the section that has come undone.

You drop the gambeson to the laundry before heading back to Baelor’s chambers

You drop the gambeson off at the laundry before heading back to Baelor’s chambers.

He is seated at his desk when you enter, his chin resting against his fist, brow drawn tight, eyes squinted shut.

“Are you alright, your grace?” you ask quietly.

His eyes open at the sound of your voice. “Just a headache,” he murmurs. “An unfortunate side effect of my injury at Ashford.”

You recall Tom returning from Ashford quite sombre. He’d recounted everything that has occurred: how Prince Aerion had demanded a Trial of Seven against the hedge knight Ser Duncan, who had struck him for assaulting a young woman. And how Prince Baelor had stood with Ser Duncan, against his own kin, recognising that Ser Duncan was only acting in accordance with the knights’ oath. You remember how surprised you were then, and how your brother’s admiration for his master had only deepened.

“Is there anything I can do to assist you, your grace?” you ask softly. “Should I ask the maesters for some willow bark tea?”

“No.” He sighs, shifting his hand from his temple. “The Grand Maester will insist on attending me himself, and he will make a fuss.” He glances toward the solar’s window. “The light is harder to bear when these headaches come on.”

“I’ll draw the curtains, your grace.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

You start with the curtains in the solar to bring relief to Baelor as quickly as possible. The dining room curtains prove more troublesome, being mounted so high, but after a few determined tugs you manage to draw them closed, dimming most of the light spilling in from the courtyard.

When you return to Baelor’s desk, he has one hand pressed lightly against his temple.

“I could tell the maesters the tea is for me,” you offer. “Then they won’t fuss over you.”

Baelor gives a quiet chuckle. “Thank you, Tom, but I will manage.”

~

You make it through the first week without disaster or discovery. By the beginning of your second, you realise you no longer serve merely for Tom’s sake, but because you want to. It is a rare relief to work for someone who never raises his voice, who is patient, and who thanks you for your efforts.

“Good work mending my gambeson,” Baelor says after training. He has washed and changed and now sits at the midday meal, looking considerably restored. “Your stitching is finer than the last time you mended my clothes.”

Rask glances up at you as he fills Baelor’s goblet, his eyes sharp with interest. Alarm coils in your chest. You should have thought how Tom wouldn’t be as practiced with a needle as you.

You clear your throat. “My sister showed me, your grace.”

“I remember you saying she was a seamstress,” he replies, popping a grape into his mouth.

“And an embroiderer, your grace.”

He nods, swallowing. “She sounds very skilled. You’re fortunate to have her help.”

“I am, your grace.” The words feel strange on your tongue – speaking of yourself as though you were someone else.

You think instead of how you are the lucky one – for having Tom, for his securing this position in the first place, for earning the regard of Prince Baelor, and for spending most of his wages on the residence in Cobbler’s Square, even though he scarcely sleeps there now that he has quarters in the Red Keep. You’re incredibly fortunate to have a brother like him.

Baelor finishes his meal and wipes his mouth with a napkin before rising. “I must return to my correspondence.”

He moves into the solar and settles at his desk. Rask steps forward with the wine, lifting the pitcher to refill the goblet, but Baelor places a hand lightly over the rim, stopping him.

“I would be grateful if you could bring some water instead, Rask. I’ll be poring over these letters for some time. I mustn’t be drunk while doing so,” he adds with a faint smile.

“Yes, your grace.” Rask withdraws, shooting you a narrowed look on his way across the chamber, pitcher in hand. He gathers the remains of Baelor’s meal as he passes. Baelor’s gaze follows him out before turning back to you.

“Is something amiss between you and Rask?” he asks. “I’ve noticed a few sour looks cast your way.”

“I’m not sure why, your grace,” you reply. “I’m not aware of anything I may have done to offend him.”

Baelor hums softly, rubbing the back of his head with a faint wince. “Would you draw the curtains, Tom? My headache seems to have returned.”

“Of course, your grace.”

You move through the room, pulling each curtain closed. When you glance back toward the solar, the dimness looks too heavy for reading, so you fetch several extra candles and arrange them along the edge of his desk, their warm glow easing some of the gloom.

The chamber door opens just as you finish. Rask enters with a fresh pitcher.

“This is why I appreciate you, Tom,” Baelor says, nodding toward the candles. “You show initiative.”

“Water, your grace,” Rask says stiffly, pouring into the goblet.

“Thank you, Rask. You are free to go until supper.”

“Yes, your grace.” He sets the pitcher down with a firm, unmistakably pointed thud before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

When the door shuts behind him, Baelor exhales and looks to you.

“Do not trouble yourself with him,” he says. “He forgets that service is not a competition.”

You simply nod in reply, though Rask’s behaviour unsettles you.

Baelor picks up the next letter from the pile, but the moment his brow creases you recognise the tell-tale pinch of another headache.

“I procured some willow bark last week, your grace,” you say quietly. “In case you were struck with a headache again. Would you like me to make up some tea?”

He sets the letter down, looking at you with a flicker of amused surprise.

“I suppose you told the maesters it was for you?”

“I might have.”

Baelor smirks. “It would be appreciated. Thank you, Tom.”

You bow your head and make your way downstairs to fetch a pitcher of hot water – only to nearly collide with Rask in the corridor.

“I bet you’re lapping up the prince’s praise like a good little dog,” he mutters, his voice low and unpleasant.

“What?”

 “I work just as hard as you, if not harder. It should be me in your place.”

“Service isn’t a competition,” you say, thinking of Baelor’s earlier words.

“Of course it is.” His lip curls. “You prove you’re the better than the rest, and you’re rewarded. Or…” He looks you up and down. “You lick the right boots.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you reply, unable to keep a slight edge from your voice at the insinuation.

Rask steps closer, lowering his voice even further. “There’s been something different about you lately, and I’m going to find out why.”

He brushes past you, leaving a chill of unease trailing in his wake.

You collect the willow bark from your room before filling a pitcher with hot water and finding a small ceramic pot. When you return to Baelor’s chambers, he is still seated at his desk in the solar, though he has abandoned his letters. He leans back in the chair, hands resting on the edge of the desk as he absently twists one of his rings, his expression taut with pain.

You set the pitcher and pot on the dining table and brew the tea, letting the bitter scent rise before carrying it to him.

“I hope this helps, your grace.” You offer the cup with both hands.

“Thank you, Tom.” His fingers brush yours as he takes it – the contact lasting no longer than a heartbeat – but a jolt of warmth shoots up your arm and settles low in your stomach. You release the cup quickly and step back, hoping he hasn’t noticed the heat rising in your cheeks.

“I suspect my time in the training yard triggered this attack,” Baelor says, raising the cup to his lips. “It did the same last week. But I cannot afford to grow weak. A prince must be strong, and ready for whatever may come.”

Concern knots inside you. Surely forcing himself through exercises that flare up an old head injury cannot be wise.

Baelor blows lightly across the surface of the tea and takes a sip. He grimaces as he swallows.

“I always forget how bitter willow bark is,” he mutters, holding the cup a fraction away from his mouth.

“My mother used to say a little unpleasantness now saves a great deal of pain later.”

Baelor huffs a quiet, humour-tinged breath. “A wise woman. And I suspect the saying applies to more than medicine.”

~

The next week passes without incident, though an undercurrent of tension lingers after Rask’s confrontation. He hasn’t spoken another word to you, but his glances remain sharp and suspicious, like he’s waiting for you to slip.

“I’m due for a trim,” Baelor says one morning, running a hand through his beard as he examines himself in the washstand mirror. He opens the drawer beneath it and produces a small pair of shears. “Would you?” he asks, offering them to you.

“Of course, your grace.”

You take the towel he used after washing and follow him into the solar. He pulls his chair away from the desk and positions it near the window where the light is strongest before sitting. You drape the towel over his chest and shoulders to catch the loose hairs.

“How much would you like trimmed, your grace?”

“About this much.” He pinches the air between his thumb and forefinger, then tips his head back in quiet expectation.

You steady yourself as you step closer, shears in hand. Relief flickers through you that he hasn’t asked for a shave. Somehow you doubt you could hold a razor to a prince’s throat without your hands shaking. A single nick would be unthinkable.

Your palms are slightly clammy, your stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with nerves over the trimming itself. You begin carefully, snipping small sections of hair along his jawline. The slow, precise movements demand your full attention, keeping your focus on the shears rather than on how close you are to the prince. You hear every breath he takes, feel its warmth ghost over your fingers.

Baelor shifts, and you glance up – only to meet his gaze directly. For the first time you see his eyes properly: one silvery blue, the other a warm brown. The contrast is startling, almost mesmerising, and for a heartbeat you forget to breathe. You drop your eyes at once, drawing in a steadying breath before continuing. Each quiet snip seems loud in the stillness of the solar, each movement weighted with the awareness of your closeness.

You brush away stray hairs with the edge of the towel and go back to even the lengths, grateful when you see the prince has closed his eyes. With him no longer watching you, you feel freer to inspect your work, checking that both sides match before giving his jaw one last gentle sweep of the towel. Then you retrieve the polished mirror from his bedchamber.

“All finished, your grace,” you say, holding the mirror before him.

Baelor opens his eyes and tilts his head forward, turning it from side to side as he inspects the trim.

“Very good, Tom.” He smiles, before rising and returning the chair to its place behind the desk.

The chamber door opens and Rask enters, a tray balanced in one hand, a pitcher and goblet in the other. He crosses to the table and sets them down with practiced efficiency.

You fold the towel carefully, making sure none of the trimmed hairs scatter onto the floor.

“Is there anything else you need, your grace?” you ask.

Baelor picks up a folded note from his desk and offers it to you. “Would you deliver this to Lord Penrose? After that, I won’t need you until this evening.”

You nod and slip the letter into your pocket, then head into his bedchamber to collect the used wash water and the clothes he changed out of. With your arms full, you leave his chambers.

You focus on the rhythm of your steps as you descend staircase after staircase from the Tower of the Hand, your own thoughts louder than your tread.

It had been harmless work – nothing more than trimming a prince’s beard. You have done far more intimate tasks these past weeks – he has been fully undressed in your presence countless times – yet something about this morning unsettles you. Your hands near his face, the brief brush of your fingers against his jaw, meeting his eyes at close range – those striking mismatched eyes catching the light.

The memory settles deep within you, warm and heavy, refusing to be dismissed.

By the time you reach the laundry room, your palms are damp and your thoughts are tangled. You drop the clothes in their proper place and step back into the corridor, drawing a slow breath. He is your prince. You are supposed to be Tom. Tom would not feel this. And neither should you.

It’s only when you reach the stairs that you remember the note in your pocket. You’ve never delivered anything to the Master of Coin before. You take out your folded page of Tom’s directions, scanning it before heading upward.

Halfway there, you stop again, realising you’ve already forgotten a turn. You murmur the route under your breath, repeating it to fix it in your mind, when you feel the faint shift of air behind you.

You turn. Rask stands close, peering over your shoulder.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” he asks, tipping his head at the paper.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, folding it at once.

“Didn’t look like nothing to me.” He steps nearer – close enough that you feel his breath brush the back of your neck. “Looked like directions. Why would you need directions around the Keep?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Your mind blanks. Anything you try to say will sound like a lie.

Rask studies your silence with a slow, curling sneer. “Nothing to say? Your silence damns you, Tom. Or whoever the fuck you are.”

“I have a letter to deliver,” you manage, your voice catching in your throat.

You hurry away down the corridor, pulse thumping in your ears.

After delivering the message, you make your way to the servants’ quarters on unsteady legs and slip into your room, closing the door quickly behind you. Your chest feels tight, every breath a conscious effort. You sit on the edge of the bed, curling inward as if you could fold yourself small enough to disappear.

You’ve been caught out. This will be the end – for you, for Tom. What punishment awaits for such a deception? Whipping? Worse? The thought sends a fresh wave of panic pulsing through you, hollowing out your stomach.

And Baelor… You have never once heard him raise his voice, never seen more than a flicker of frustration cross his face. But now? Will you see his fury? Will those mismatched eyes look upon you with disdain – disgust?

A firm knock on the door startles you upright. You wipe your clammy palms on your breeches and force yourself to stand, crossing the room with stiff legs. When you open the door, Ser Duncan fills the doorway.

“His Grace, Prince Baelor, wishes to speak with you,” he says.

“Alright,” you manage, stepping forward, only for Ser Duncan to shift into your path, broad shoulders blocking the way.

“I need to check you for weapons.”

Your breath snags. Is that what they think—that you mean to harm the prince?

You nod, silent. Duncan pats you down with practiced efficiency, circling your waist and hips, then crouching to feel along your calves, pressing around your boots for anything concealed.

“Right,” he says as he straightens. “Come with me.”

The Red Keep’s passageways feel colder than usual, the air sharp against your skin. Every footfall seems too loud, Duncan’s heavy steps an echo of your own. Numbness settles through you as you climb toward the Tower of the Hand – so deep that you barely notice the usual burn in your calves.

At the chamber door, Duncan knocks twice.

“Enter,” Baelor’s voice calls from within.

Duncan pushes the door open and gestures for you to go first. You step inside, the chambers unnervingly quiet, and cross to the solar.

Baelor waits there, perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded. His mouth is pressed into a thin line; the weariness in his gaze is unmistakable when he lifts it to you. He straightens as you approach. Duncan moves to one of the arches leading to the courtyard, positioning himself on guard.

“I have received a troubling report about you, Tom,” Baelor says. His voice is as steady as ever.

Your knees buckle before you can think. You drop to the floor, kneeling before the prince.

“Your grace,” you say, and the words come out in your true voice – cracked, thin, impossible to hide any longer.

“Rask said he saw you looking at a page of notes – directions for navigating the Red Keep, and instructions for your duties as my attendant. He also remarked that your mannerisms have changed, even that you smelled different. He then spoke of a Braavosian guild of assassins who, he claims, alter their appearance with magic to get close to their targets. He suggested you might be one of them.”

Baelor tilts his head, eyes fixed on you, waiting for a reply.

“I… I am not from Braavos, your grace, and I know nothing of magic. I…” Your throat tightens, and you glance toward Ser Duncan, whose expression is stony and unreadable. “…I am Tom’s sister.” Your head bows, shame and fear coiling in your chest.

Baelor’s posture loosens slightly. “How long have you been serving me under the guise of your brother?”

You count the days in your mind. “The day I spilled ink on your desk was my first day, your grace.”

He is silent, thoughtful, the faint crease between his brows deepening.

“And what has happened to Tom? Why have you replaced him?”

“He… was badly beaten in a fight, your grace. His arm is broken. He is not fit to carry out his duties, and was certain he would be replaced. We have a residence in Cobbler’s Square, but if he lost his position, we wouldn’t be able to afford the rent. Our father never wanted us to end up in Flea Bottom. We’ve always worked hard to stay away from it. He grew up there, you see. He knew what it was like.”

From the corner of your eye, you notice Ser Duncan shift, but he says nothing.

Baelor sighs and begins to pace. “Why didn’t Tom speak to me? We could have come to an arrangement.”

“Servants are replaced all the time… he expected it would be no different for him.”

“All of this deception could have been avoided if he had been willing to have a conversation.”

“He was afraid, your grace… please do not punish Tom. It was my idea to take his place. We were always told how similar we looked since we were children. I thought if I cut my hair, wore his clothes, I could manage it until he healed. It was I who deceived you, so it should be I who bears the consequences.”

Baelor stills. Silence hangs between you for a moment.

“It is highly inappropriate for a woman to serve as a man’s attendant,” he says.

“I never looked at you…” You cringe inwardly. “I never saw anything, your grace.” You keep your eyes fixed on the floor.

“Nevertheless, this cannot continue.”

“Of course, your grace.”

“Your deception was wrong, but… I can understand your reasoning. You must leave my service immediately, but you will not be punished.”

You look up, astonished. “Your grace…”

“Rise.”

Shakily, you obey. “Thank you for your clemency, your grace. I will not forget your generosity.”

“Retrieve your belongings and return home. I will find a temporary attendant until Tom has recovered.”

“Thank you, your grace. Thank you.” You bow deeply, hand pressed over your heart.

“You may go.”

As you walk the familiar path to Cobbler’s Square, your thoughts whirl: relief at no longer pretending, guilt, exhaustion, and a strange, persistent ache. The memory of his eyes – one pale, one warm brown – lingers, sharp and impossible to shake. You know, with a sinking certainty, that you will likely never see them again.

The door to your home creaks as you step inside. Tom, seated by the window, straightens immediately and rises, surprise and curiosity written across his face.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, clearly puzzled that you would return in the middle of the day.

You had just come off of a long and tiring week at work—it was one of those with one tough case after another. You wanted nothing more than to hunker down in your apartment with a bag of chips and a good TV show to binge, but instead you were arriving at a campground for a weekend of “team bonding.”

You wouldn’t have even bothered to join if Trinity hadn’t told you the trip was “going to be super chill, a few cool people.” She’d acted as if it would be a small girls trip—just the two of you and maybe Mel.

Instead, you were joining in on a camping trip that Dr. Robby hosted yearly to bring the emergency physicians and nurses closer together and boost team morale. You’re not quite sure how spending a weekend in the cold wilderness could make their team like each other more, but there’s no sense in questioning it too much now that you’re stuck with them.

You’ve been driving for two and a half hours, so despite your frustration with Trinity over her deception, you’re glad to be able to stretch your legs. The parking lot is full of emergency physicians pulling camping gear out of their car trunks—you notice that Whitaker is pulling both his and Trinity’s gear out of her car, Langdon is pulling a large backpack onto his back as he hands a smaller one to Mel, and it seems like Samira, Javadi, and Ellis all carpooled with Dr. McKay. 

“Donnie and Mateo should be here soon. Seems like Robby and Dr. Abbot are running a little bit behind too,” Trinity tells you. She doesn’t seem at all concerned that Whitaker is hunched under the weight of both of their backpacks as he makes his way over to the two of you. 

“Y/N! How was the drive?” Whitaker asks as he lowers their gear to the ground. 

“Not too bad, although I didn’t realize it would be so far. Trin left out a few convenient details when she invited me to join.” He cringes as you speak, clearly aware of Trinity’s scheming.

“Well, at least the hike isn’t too long. Only about thirty or forty minutes, then we can settle down and relax.”

“The hike?” You turn to Trinity, eyes piercing her with blame. She never said anything about hiking from the parking lot to the campsite. When you saw that the parking lot was separate from the actual site you just assumed it would be a short walk to get there.

“Woops?” She shrugs her shoulders as if it was an honest mistake before quickly becoming apologetic. “I’m just glad you came along. I’m sorry Y/N, I thought you might say no if I told you that there would be hiking or people. I know you don’t like socializing or , but I think you’ll have fun this weekend!”

“If I hadn’t spent all morning driving here, I would turn around and drive right back to Pittsburgh and spend the weekend in bed,” you tell her sternly. “You’re lucky you’re my best friend and I love you.”

“Yes! It’s going to be great!” She throws herself at you in celebration, and your arms reach up to awkwardly wrap around her. 

“Looks like the party’s started without us,” a deep voice—one you recognize as Robby—says from behind you. Extracting yourself from Trinity’s arms, you turn to see him lifting the door to the trunk of the car as Dr. Abbot steps out of the driver’s seat. Behind them, Mateo’s car pulls into a parking spot. 

“We’re just so excited for a weekend of team bonding,” Trinity says sarcastically. Robby gives her a stern look before focusing on the bags in the back of his car.

You pull your backpack from the passenger seat of your car—it’s full of clothes and all the random emergency supplies you thought you might need on a camping trip. Now that you know you’ll have to hike to the campground, you’re regretting the romance novel and e-reader that you packed. 

Once everybody seems ready, the group starts heading toward the trail—it starts at the far end of the parking lot, flat at first but quickly becoming more steep. You hadn’t thought to pack hiking shoes (you don’t even have hiking shoes), so you’re wearing a pair of tennis shoes that rarely see the outside of your closet. 

As you get farther down the trail, it becomes clear that you can’t keep pace with the rest of the group. Robby leads the pack, quickly navigating his way up the stairs that have been carved into the dirt of the trail, while Dr. Abbot brings up the rear of the group. At this point, Robby and most of the group have long since left you and Dr. Abbot behind. 

Dr. Abbot walks behind you, careful but sure as he takes each step. At first you thought that he was staying behind because of his leg, but you soon realize that he’s completely capable of keeping up with the group. 

In fact, he’s only hiking slowly because he’s keeping an eye on you.

And for good reason, because the trail is a little moist and you’re not used to hiking. So when you step on a particularly slippery patch of mud, your foot can’t ground itself and your backpack adds a little too much weight to balance. You’re unable to stop yourself from taking a fall—but Dr. Abbot is.

Before you can find yourself on the muddy floor of the forest, you feel a firm hand take your elbow and pull you up to safety. He runs his hands over both of your arms, seemingly trying to calm you down. 

“Careful. Those shoes don’t look like they were made for hiking.” His arms fall to his side as he grimaces at your feet. “Don’t want you to fall, considering most of the people who could help have decided they need to race to the top.”

“I think you’re capable of patching me up,” you joke to him. He cracks a small smile before reaching toward you, gesturing at your backpack.

“Here. Let me take that. Can’t have you falling.” You hesitate, weary about giving up your things, but eventually relent and let him take your bag. From there, it’s a significantly easier hike. You notice that Dr. Abbot barely breaks a sweat and seems to have no issue carrying the extra weight of your backpack. What you don’t notice, though, is that he struggles to keep his eyes off of your ass as you walk in front of him. The steep climb of the trail offers the perfect angle for him to watch your hips sway as you walk. 

Everybody else is already setting up their tents and arranging their gear when you and Abbot finally arrive at the campsite. You thank Dr. Abbot and take your backpack from him before making your way to Trinity and Whitaker. Trinity is taking tent stakes out of her backpack when you walk up to her, and when she notices you’re there she looks up at you slowly with a sheepish look on her face.

“So… I know I told you I had a tent for you to camp in. But I think I left it on my kitchen counter when I was reorganizing my things this morning. I’m so sorry, Y/N.” 

“Okay,” you respond. “So we’ll have to squeeze into your tent? That’s what I thought we were doing, anyways.”

“Well, I promised Whitaker he could stay in the tent with me since I thought I would have a tent for you to keep to yourself. But I can kick him out if you want? I’m sure he could figure it out… or something.” You shake your head, not interested in coming between Trinity and Whitaker—it already baffled you that the two of them were able to live together, and you don’t want to instigate any sort of tension.

“No, no,” you say. “I’ll just ask some of the others if they have space. I’m sure someone will.” 

You decide to ask Samira if she has space first. You know all of the emergency staff, but Trinity, Mel, and Samira are the only ones that you have a true friendship with. And you’d much rather share a tent with someone who you consider a friend than a colleague.

But Samira is already sharing a small tent with Ellis, and there’s truly no way you’d be able to fit three people in the tiny space they had. You consider asking Mel if she has space, but it becomes clear quickly that it isn’t an option when you see Langdon setting up one tent for the both of them. Javadi and McKay are also paired up in a small tent, and Donnie and Mateo are paired up as well. You can’t even bring yourself to ask any of them if they could make room for you to squeeze in—you’re already self conscious about joining their team trip, much less being so incredibly underprepared.

“Jack and I have a pretty big tent. You’re welcome to join us, if you need somewhere to crash.” You cringe as you swing around to look at Robby, who’s gesturing at the tent that he’s already set up. It is pretty big, and could definitely fit three or four people in it, but you have no idea how you’ll get over the embarrassment of having to share a room with two male attendings for a weekend. What the hell would Gloria say if she caught wind of something like that?

“Um… I don’t know if that would be appropriate. I can just–” You don’t bother finishing your sentence, instead hitching your thumb in the direction of the trail and shrugging. It would be a massive pain to have to turn around and hike back down—and then drive all the way back to Pittsburgh—but it might be a better option than this.

“No, really,” he says. “Camping is an outdoor activity. We’ll only be in the tent to sleep, and it’s hard to sleep out here anyways. There’s really no harm in sharing, and we have extra gear—it doesn’t seem like you brought much.” You think about it for a moment, and the dread of having to make the hike back to the parking lot gets to you. You nod your head in acceptance.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m really sorry about this. Trin said she would have a tent for me, and she also told me this would just be a small girls trip, and I had no idea I was intruding on some sort of yearly tradition. I would have never–” 

“No need to apologize. This is really less of a team-bonding trip and more of a vacation for Jack and I. We started inviting everyone else about three years ago after Langdon got jealous about not being invited, and then Mel decided to join, and then everybody else decided to tag along.” You nod, your shoulders lowering from your chin and your stress dissolving slightly. Robby takes the backpack from your shoulders (he must have gotten that trick from Dr. Abbot) and places it inside of the tent before returning outside. 

After all the tents are set up and everybody has gotten their bearings, you find yourself standing in a circle with the rest of the group as Robby lets everybody know about the plan for the day. And the plan… is that there is no plan. It seems like Robby just assumed everybody would find something to do, so now the group is standing around and simply staring at each other.

Not one to linger in awkward silence for too long, Trinity speaks up to offer an activity: “Y/N is a great yoga instructor, and there’s an area we could set up for some yoga nearby.” You glare at her for volunteering you, though you have to admit to yourself that a little bit of yoga could do your nerves some good right now.

“That’s a great idea!” Mel says, grabbing Langdon’s hand and pulling his arm excitedly. “We would love to join for some yoga.” Langdon doesn’t seem nearly as interested as Mel, but he nods in acceptance when he sees her excitement.

“Yeah, we’re down,” Ellis says, looking around for agreement from the other women in the group. When Donnie and Mateo agree to join as well, Robby looks at Abbot with a shrug before following Trinity. 

“Okay,” you say. “Let me get my mat.” 

“It’s in your backpack, right? I saw it sticking out of the top,” Dr. Abbot says. “Be right back—I’ll grab it.” He jogs off before you can reply and tell him that you’ll get it, and he returns quickly with the mat in his hands. You get a sense of déjà vu as you’re once again left behind the rest of the group to walk slowly with Abbot.

You lead the group through a flow of stretches and a gentle sequence that seems to work for everyone. Almost everyone is goofing around and laughing with each other while they follow your instructions, but Robby seems focused on getting the poses right. When you see he’s struggling to stretch into one of the poses you cue, you walk over and kneel next to him. You place one hand on the back of his neck and one on the back of his thigh, gently pushing into his muscles to help loosen his posture.

“You’re a little bit tight right here,” you whisper. “Just let go and allow your body to fall into the pose, instead of forcing it to comply with your will. Not everything is a matter of control, Robby.” He huffs quietly, but follows your instructions, limbs softening under your hands and facial expression relaxing.

“Good,” you say. “Well done.” You move back toward the front of the group, not noticing Abbot and Robby’s eyes on you as you settle into the pose on your own mat and begin giving the next cue for the group. 

The rest of the day consists of chatting with Mel and Trinity, trying to make a fire with Mateo to use for making dinner, and hiding away from the others so you could have some quiet to read the romance novel you’d shoved into your backpack. You were settled on a blanket beneath a tree, deep into a chapter with a relatively high level of spice, when you heard steps coming up behind you.

“Oh, sorry Y/N. I’m just looking for some dry limbs to use for this fire,” Robby says apologetically. “Somebody was trying to use wet sticks earlier to make the fire—no wonder they couldn’t get one started.”

“Oh, that was Mateo and I,” you say, cringing. “I’m sorry, I’ve never made a fire before.” He shakes his head, eyes going wide as he realizes his mistake.

“No, no. It’s not your fault at all. Honestly, it’s just good that you wanted to try,” he says. He scratches the top of his head awkwardly with one hand before shrugging. “I could show you how to make one, if you want?”

“Oh yeah, sure! Just let me find something I can use as a bookmark. I hate dog-earing pages,” you laugh as you push yourself up from your position on the ground. He reaches into his pockets, digging around until he pulls a small piece of paper out and handing it to you. You look down at it before bursting into laughter.

“Oh my God. You’re giving me a receipt for condoms as a bookmark?” His eyes widen and he shakes his head quickly as you continue to laugh at him.

“They aren’t for me,” he says. “I started buying them for the trip after…well…an incident a couple years ago when King and Langdon first got together. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it—you said you needed a bookmark and I just remembered I had a receipt in my pocket.”

“Jesus, Robby. Way to give a girl a good laugh.” You place the receipt in your book and shut it, still laughing as you follow him to the sad-looking fire pit. Abbot is sitting on a camping chair next to it, eyebrows furrowing as he notices Robby’s sheepish expression and your uncontrollable laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Oh, you know,” you say. “Condoms.” You burst into another round of laughter, covering your mouth and shaking your head. Abbot gives you a quizzical look, but moves on when Robby hands him a stack of dry twigs.

“Okay,” Robby says. “When you’re making a fire, you need to make sure you’re using dry kindling.” He removes the moist logs that you and Mateo had placed earlier and proceeds to explain the fire-making process to you. You’re listening, but it’s hard to pay attention to everything he says when his arms flex as he adjusts the firewood. And you don’t notice when Abbot sees you looking so intently at Robby’s physique—or when Abbot looks at yours. 

Once the fire is built, Robby works on cooking dinner while you and Abbot sit comfortably around the fire. You’re unsure what it is, but it smells delicious and you’re starving from the long day of outdoor activities.

“How long have the two of you had yearly camping trips, Dr. Abbot?” 

“Oh, about five years or so. And you should call me Jack,” he says, “considering we’ll be sharing a bedroom tonight.” You look down at the ground and blush, unsure how to respond to his brazen statement, but nod.

“Jack it is,” you say quietly.

Dinner is lively, and maybe the loudest meal you’ve ever attended. Trinity argues with Langdon over a medical procedure that you barely understand, Donnie and Mateo almost get into a food fight when Mateo takes the last serving left in the pot, and Dr. McKay and Whitaker have an animated discussion about some television show you haven’t seen. 

When dinner is over, Trinity offers herself and Whitaker to clean up the mess (in apologies for her deception… and forgetting your tent). She pushes you away when you try to help, and simply tells you to go relax and get ready for bed.

You beat both Robby and Jack to the tent and decide that you have enough time to change before they get back—no need to bring your clothes all the way to the semi-outdoor bathrooms when you can just change in the tent. You peel your pants and shirt off, shivering as soon as the chill hits your skin and bending down to pick up the thin pair of pajamas you had packed—you hadn’t realized it would be so cold. When you hear a soft unzipping noise, you immediately spring up to standing and turn around, arms crossed over your chest as if you could hide your inadequately clothed body from the two men standing in the doorway of the tent.

Robby’s mouth is wide open in shock as he looks at you, too consumed with the shape of your breasts and hips to consider looking away. Jack is less shocked than Robby, but is just as appreciative. He gives you a small smirk—one that silently says “It seems like you did this on purpose”—before he puts a hand on Robby’s shoulder and gestures for him to look away from your panties.

“Sorry about that, doll,” he says. “We didn’t realize you were already getting ready for bed. We’ll give you a second.” Before you can apologize for your exceptionally unprofessional state of dress, Jack zips the door to the tent again and you hear them walk away from the tent together in quiet conversation. You feel certain they’re talking about you, and you frantically pull on your pajamas to avoid another awkward moment. You’re not sure whether you should just lay down and try to sleep or if you should wait until they come back so you can apologize profusely. Regardless, you know the shame of being seen near-naked by men you work with will gnaw at you for the rest of the trip. 

You decide to lay beneath the thin blanket you packed in your backpack—at least you had the foresight to pack an extra layer to sleep with, knowing that if you shared with Trinity you would be fighting over the covers all night. You use your backpack as a makeshift pillow and close your eyes, an image of Jack and Robby staring at your bare skin flashing through your head over and over and over and–

“Knock knock,” you hear Robby’s voice call from outside the tent. “Safe to come in?” You raise your head slightly, sitting up to respond with a short “Yep! All clear!” Your voice breaks slightly as you speak, betraying your nerves and making you cringe as Robby and Jack both enter the tent. They’re both wearing the same clothes as they were at dinner, and they look exhausted. They make quick work of looking through their bags to find pajamas—or, in Jack’s case, a pair of grey sweatpants. Well, that’s going to be a problem.

“I’m so sorry,” you say. “That was so inappropriate, and I should have just gone to change in the restrooms. I didn’t realize you two would be back so soon. I just really appreciate that you’re willing to share a tent, but I completely understand if you aren’t comfortable with that anymore. I don’t want to make either of you feel–”

“That’s okay, Y/N, it was an honest mistake. And we should have checked to be sure you were decent first,” Robby says. He looks at Jack for a moment before looking back at you, a look in his eyes that you can’t quite read. 

“But, you know, fair is fair,” Jack says, and your eyes widen as they both start undressing in front of you. And they make eye contact with you the whole. fucking. time. 

Jack pulls the grey sweatpants he was holding over a pair of boxer-briefs, and Robby pulls on a pair of green flannel pajama pants over boxers. Neither bothers to put on a shirt, gifting you with an eyeful of every flex of their muscles—and you’re pretty sure most of the movement is for your benefit. 

Each of them pulls a thick sleeping pad and blanket out of their bags, and Jack gestures for you to stand up from the sad sleeping situation you had set up for yourself. They place the sleeping pads on the floor of the tent so they meet with each other to make one large space to sleep, and then throw their blankets and your blanket on top. 

“Go on,” Robby says, gesturing toward the middle of the sleeping pads. “That’ll be much more comfortable to sleep on than the ground.” You nod and move towards the bedding, settling toward the far side of the tent. 

“We’re both pretty possessive sleepers,” Jack says. “If you sleep over there, you’re going to end up with no blankets and cold all night. And those pajamas don’t look very suited for the cold, doll.”

“Go ahead and take the middle,” Robby says. You nod slowly, so stressed at this point that you don’t even question the inappropriateness of sleeping between your coworkers who have just seen you in your underwear. You crawl to the middle of the mattress and settle under the blankets.

They quickly join you on the mattress, Robby on your right and Jack on your left, and settle in with you beneath the blankets. Jack has his body turned toward yours while Robby is on his back with his hands under the back of his head. You feel crowded but you’re thankful to be warm—they’re generating significantly more heat than the three blankets.

“Okay… well, goodnight,” you say. You turn on your side to face Robby, tucking one arm under your head and moving your legs up into your torso—you’ve never been able to sleep in any other position. You hear them both murmur soft goodnights in response. 

You’re hardly comfortable on a thin sleeping pad with no pillow, but it doesn’t take long for you to find yourself drifting to sleep. You’re in that odd space between awake and asleep where you find your thoughts moving away from daily stress or to-do lists and toward random ideas. Ideas like Jack wrapping an arm around your stomach and pulling you back against his hard chest—a position where you can also feel his very hard cock.

Your eyes shoot open as you process that you’re not just imagining his body pressed to your back. He’s actually pressed against you, and you can feel exactly how big he is. Instinctively, you move further back against him, grinding your ass lightly on him.

“Careful, doll,” he warns. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.” In your slightly-sleepy haze, you decide not to heed his warning and continue pushing your ass back. He gives you a moment to have your way before laughing softly and gripping your hips tightly. Before you can process the movement, he has you on your back beneath him, and you can see the hard tent of his cock in his sweats. Your eyes widen as you process exactly how big he looks from this angle. You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off before you get the chance.

“Don’t act shy now,” he says. “You wanted to rub all over my dick a minute ago. I bet if I reached into your panties right now you would be dripping wet for me.” He raises his eyebrows in question, hesitating briefly as he reaches toward your waistband. You nod your head toward his hand in agreement, and he takes his time moving his hands down your stomach, on the bare skin of your hips, and then to grip an ass cheek in each hand. He kneads your ass with both hands, covering each cheek with a large hand and jiggling slightly. He gives your ass a light slap before moving a hand toward your pussy. When he feels the wet warmth waiting for him, his lips turn up to give you a cocky grin.

“You’re going to need to feel this, Michael. She’s dripping,” he says. Your eyes widen as you realize you hadn’t even checked if Robby was awake. You turn to your side and see Robby’s eyes flitting between your heaving chest and the hand Jack has in your pants. His flannel pants are tented with the outline of his hard cock, which he has one hand on over his pants. You subconsciously lick your lips at the sight.

“Yeah?” he asks. “You need me to touch you, sweetheart?” You nod quickly, one hand reaching up to rake your fingernails down Jack’s arm while the other one finds Robby’s wrist and guides it to your legs. As Robby’s fingers reach into your panties and make their way to your clit, Jack’s move down to your entrance. You’re unable to stop yourself from letting out a soft “Oh!” when one finger pushes into you. 

You can barely fucking think when you feel Robby’s lips on yours, nipping softly at your bottom lip and meeting your tongue with his. He puts pressure on your clit as he circles it, creating a delicious friction with the pads of his fingers. He increases the pressure when you moan into his mouth, and Jack pulls out of your pussy to fuck you with another finger. 

“You want to use that mouth on Michael, doll? Make him feel good?” You can’t find the words to respond, too overstimulated by their hands on your pussy and Robby’s lips on yours—in fact, you didn’t even notice when one of them pulled your pants and underwear down to your ankles. You try to nod and make a noise of agreement, but instead you end up mewling into Robby’s mouth and letting out a pathetic, needy gasp. When you reach toward Robby’s cock, he tugs the waistband of his pants down so you can see exactly how big he is.

And oh boy is he big.

He’s red and thick, the tip glistening with the wet shine of pre-cum. You pay close attention to the prominent veins running to the bottom of him, where his hand fists the base. You immediately sit up, ignoring the awkward placement of their hands as you maneuver from your back to get onto all fours. Both men look at you with hooded eyes, nothing but appreciation for the show you’re giving them. Jack reaches for the bottom of your shirt and pulls it off in one quick swoop, and then they’re both sitting back and waiting for you. 

And you’re so fucking ready that you crawl to put yourself between Robby’s legs. He adjusts to give Jack more space to continue fingering your pussy, and then reaches one hand out to your face. You lean your cheek into his hand, and when his thumb nears your mouth you don’t wait for him—you take it in your mouth and suck, keeping eye contact with him. When Jack’s fingers push into you, you take Robby’s thumb deeper in your mouth. After a moment, he replaces his thumb with two fingers and hooks them at the knuckles behind your teeth and gently pulls your face down so you’re eye level with his cock. 

He laughs softly when you move your mouth towards the tip immediately, swirling your tongue over the sticky liquid leaking out of him. He pulls his cock away from your mouth, softly tapping you on your open mouth with it before guiding it into your mouth. When the tip hits the back of your throat and you start to gag, you feel Jack place himself against your back. His chest meets your back and you feel his cock against your ass as he slowly moves one hand up and down his length. When you feel his fingers crook inside your cunt, you involuntarily gasp and Robby is able to push even deeper into your throat. 

You can barely think, focused on how fucking full you feel and how good it feels to just let go and let them use you. When you feel the pressure building up low in your stomach, you grind back onto Jack’s fingers and moan around Robby. 

“You gonna come for us, doll?” Jack asks. “Want Robby to come in your mouth? You’ve got him so close. Look at how good you’re making him feel.” He continues fucking into you with his fingers and grinds the palm of his hand on your clit. Robby threads his fingers into your hair and pushes you down even farther on his dick, his other hand pinching your nipple as he fucks into your mouth. You can’t even find the energy to respond to the question, trusting that he can tell how fucking bad you want it from the movement of your hips and your eager, sloppy treatment of Robby’s cock.

“Fuck,” Robby whispers. “I’m going to come, sweetheart. You can take it, yeah?” He thrusts into your mouth, cum spurting into the back of your throat as you try desperately not to gag on his length. And then you feel the pressure at your clit release, moaning softly and pressing into Jack’s fingers as you swallow everything Robby gives you. As you take your mouth off of his softening length, you feel wet strings of cum land on your back and hear Jack sigh in relief.

You can’t even begin to think about where to move—you’re still on all fours between Robby’s legs, cum on your back and clothes somewhere on the floor of the tent. You let Robby maneuver you so that you’re laying on the mattress on your stomach, and Jack pulls on his sweatpants to slip out of the tent. 

When he comes back, he has a wet t-shirt to wipe your back and sex. After cleaning you up, they move you back on your side and press close to you. It doesn’t take long for your eyes to close as you drift into sleep.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re burning up with the heat of both men surrounding you. They each have an arm thrown over your naked torso, and their eyes are open. There’s no telling how long they’ve been waiting for you to wake up.

“Oh my fucking God,” you say. “What have we done?” Jack and Robby look a bit nervous, but each grins as they make eye contact with each other from either side of you. Robby rises from his position next to you and moves toward your legs, placing himself between them and lowering his head to the apex of your thighs. Jack leans down to press his lips against yours softly before answering your question.